


Mutable Signs

by notboldly



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Slavery, M/M, Pre-Reform, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-14
Updated: 2012-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-30 16:00:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 34,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notboldly/pseuds/notboldly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Change comes in many forms; for Spock, that change was an alien slave named Kirk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Even when the weather on Vulcan permitted, Spock was not the type who regularly ventured outdoors. This was not a statement about his relatively pampered life or his habits so much as his preferences, however, and the simple fact of the matter was that more often than not, Spock preferred not to be seen. He had his reasons for this, for preferring the quiet seclusion of the record keeper’s office— _his_  office—to the bright sun and thriving crowds of Vulcan citizens, reasons that would never be addressed out loud. He supposed his father made excuses for him or at least had done so up until Spock’s adulthood ceremony two months ago, excuses about how his hybrid nature made him susceptible to the heat, how busy he was running the estate of the great Lord Sarek, how he was ill, and they were excuses accepted easily by those few who cared or noticed his absence.  
  
They were lies, fabricated because the truth was not Vulcan at all, or at least, not as Vulcan as it should have been.  
  
Spock hated the slave market— _hated_  it. It was difficult living in Shi’Kahr, one of the largest slave ports on the planet surface due to their extensive crop production, because some things were inescapable, even indoors. He hated the smell of alien skin flayed open with horsewhips, a smell that lingered in the rare air of an open window. He hated the taste of dust that coated his tongue, dust that had not been doused with precious oil to prevent storms inside the market, as after all, the oil was significantly more expensive than easily-replaceable aliens. He hated the screams of slaves, noises that permeated the walls with their alien pitch and the unmistakable sound of agony. He hated all of this…but he hated it more because it reminded him of his own origins, and that reason was what kept him inside more than anything. What kept him accepting his father’s excuses for his avoidance, even though Spock knew them to be false and unnecessary.  
  
He was a coward, too scared to go outside…too scared that, even after all these years, he might run into  _her_ , the woman who had borne him, the slave who had been sold three weeks after his birth. He had no name and no image in his mind to describe her and so would not recognize her, but—and of this he was certain—she would not doubt recognize him: except for a few minor details, he had his father’s face.  
  
And so it was that he stayed inside. His office was small and secluded and peaceful, and it was his home, more so than the grand bedchamber three floors above or any other room in the holding, despite the fact he was afforded relative luxury as Lord Sarek’s second son, the last child he could ever have. Surrounded by dusty books and neatly organized ledgers and electronic files that he did not use, Spock felt useful, felt wanted, even if his presence never was by anyone except his irritatingly persistent elder brother.  
  
Said elder brother who, as it happened, was throwing balled up parchment at him even then.  
  
“Spock.” A piece struck the back of his head, and Spock brushed it off his shoulder. Another piece flew, tiny but noticeable, to land on his desk and open ledger, and he brushed that aside as well.  
  
“ _Spock_ . Don’t ignore me!”  
  
Spock turned to the form draped over his second desk, the desk belonging to his assistant who was rarely present. His assistant who, like so many others before him, was also one of his brother’s numerous acquaintances, perhaps even a hunting partner.  
  
“Yes, Sybok?”  
  
Sybok tapped his foot impatiently, and although Spock had acknowledged him, he continued to tear the expensive parchment into tiny squares that he then flicked at Spock’s ears. By looking at his behavior, it was difficult to imagine that Sybok was in fact a full six years older.  
  
“You work too much, you know that, don’t you?” It was a continual point of contention between them: the idea that Spock worked too much and that Sybok did not work at all, choosing his folly of hunting and gambling and beautiful bed partners over the training that he should rightly have been doing, the training necessary for his brother’s eventual ascension to his title.  
  
But because Sybok was Lord Sarek’s favorite and eldest son, Spock only ever lost this argument.  
  
“If I did not work so much, brother, the estate would have no records for the planting season, no records of those employed or owned, no record of our military capabilities, and no record of even legal birthrights.”  
  
“You have an assistant, don’t you? Let  _him_  do it.” Sybok’s stubborn insistence on the matter made Spock make a soft noise of exasperation in his throat, and then he twisted in his seat, turning back to his neat columns of figures.  
  
“Selek is unreliable, as you are aware. His calculations also contain numerous errors that would result in several families going hungry during the burning season.”  
  
Sybok suddenly appeared by Spock’s ear, the point of his chin and the soft press of his beard digging into the tendons of Spock’s shoulder.  
  
“Spock, you need a day off. Come on, even just one night; come hunting with us in Ralash-Fam Forest . We both know you’re an excellent shot.”  
  
Even with his only true friend so close to him, Spock found it remarkably easy to refuse the request, bolstered by the knowledge that the dry woods of Vulcan were home to thousands of unmarked graves under its trees. The very idea made him shudder.  
  
“No, thank you.”  
  
Sybok—used to rejection—was not deterred.  
  
“Then drinking! There are alien wines in the restaurant across from the Bara House; a warm body and a drink would do you good, baby brother.”  
  
“Sybok, I am quite busy.” The words came out firmer than Spock had intended, and he wished to take them back immediately…but he did not. Instead, he compromised, giving his brother full rein to pester him again. “Perhaps another time?”  
  
Sybok leaned back, but his huff of irritation still brushed Spock’s neck.  
  
“Another time, ha! You haven’t done anything since your adulthood ceremony two months ago, nothing except reject that girl who threw herself at you.”  
  
“I would not disgrace my future wife in such a manner.” The future wife who Spock was careful to keep unnamed, in any case. Many believed him to be engaged to T’Pring, the fierce daughter of a neighboring lord. While this may have been technically true, both he and T’Pring knew the actual reality—it was an engagement that would never become a marriage, not if either of them could help it.  
  
Sybok, however, was smarter than he seemed, and he of course knew all of this, as well as a fair share that Spock himself did not.  
  
“What’s to disgrace? You know she’s banging her father’s assistant—everyone knows it. I wouldn’t be surprised if she were pregnant by now, and everyone knows you can’t have children.”  
  
“ _Everyone_ , Sybok, seems to consist only of your gossiping friends, and you’ll forgive me if I find them less than credible.”  
  
Sybok waved a hand in dismissal; Spock saw it reflected on his metal mug of cold tea, long since forgotten, and he turned reluctantly to face his brother again.  
  
“Be that as it may, Spock…you’re an adult, and I know men half your age who have already fathered children. You haven’t taken a woman, or even a man, brother. People are beginning to talk.”  
  
The warning went unheeded.  
  
“Let them.” People had talked about him for ages, after all; this new rumor—that he was impotent rather than celibate—was only one more to add to his growing list of oddities. Sybok, however, took the matter much more seriously. Well, as seriously as he did anything.  
  
“And have my household shamed? Have people look down on my brother, and call him less than a man? No. Trust me, this is for your own good…and it’s long overdue.” The last words were added almost as an afterthought, and the tone was not like his brother at all, matched by an expression without his customary smile. Spock frowned.  
  
“Sybok?”  
  
As quickly as it had come, the expression faded, wiped away with another dismissive wave of Sybok’s hand.  
  
“Nothing. See you at dinner?”  
  
Spock nodded slowly in response to the light invitation and the apparent and temporary surrender of the matter. It was not like Sybok at all.  
  
“Of course.” Spock had never missed dinner in the main hall with his brother, despite the fact that he sometimes wished to do so. It was a tradition he was loath to relinquish, and one Sybok always reminded him of. It was  _their_ tradition…but for the first time in a long while, Spock felt as though Sybok had something else in mind.  
  
********  
  
Spock did not accomplish much that afternoon, despite the full schedule that he had planned for the day. They were not urgent matters—planting season did not begin for several months in Shi’Kahr and its neighboring territory, after all—but they were things that he normally did not mind attending to months before orders for seeds were even accepted, much less asked for. Surveying the last year’s crop production and status of the soil, planning the plant rotation, ordering more equipment where needed, providing funds to those who had little but were still essential to the thriving economy…it was a series of jobs that Spock found rewarding, and although it was not possible to accomplish so many things in a just one day, the weeks long process was something that he nonetheless attempted to complete in a single afternoon. Or at least, that was his normal routine, and had been since he had become Sarek’s record keeper at the tender age of fifteen, a decade and a half ago.  
  
Today, however, he had been distracted. It was not something he liked to admit to, but long after Sybok had left, his presence had lingered in the room, or at least his words had. Spock was suspicious of such an easy capitulation, and it heralded one of Sybok’s plots. Usually they were harmless, but sometimes…well, at times they were  _less_  harmless, as dangerous as that time Sybok had felt it wise to release an entire zoo worth of animals, and Spock was not in the mood to deal with either childish pranks or treacherous meddling. And so, rather than performing the necessary tasks for the upcoming months, Spock found himself wondering what Sybok was up to, and how he could stop it. Refusal alone did not work, as Sybok was incredibly persistent. Logical alternatives worked as far as Spock could see, but devising them required knowledge about Sybok’s initial plan, which is something he did not have. Appealing to Sarek worked…but it was something Spock would rather avoid, as Sarek was a stern man who—despite loving his sons dearly—did not countenance bickering among them, and knew well the best punishments for these matters, for them  _both_ . With no other alternatives, Spock did his best to brace himself for the problems that would soon manifest, expecting them that evening, or even at dinner with Sybok, Sarek, and their selected friends.  
  
Except…there was nothing. Everyone laughed or didn’t as was their norm, with Spock speaking only when spoken to or otherwise politely ignoring the remarks from Suvar, one of Sybok’s more insufferable friends who had never liked Spock and always belittled him. The food was delicious and served by servants and slaves who kept themselves politely invisible, and Spock was very careful—always careful—to give proper thanks under his breath, even when the people in question could not hear him.  
  
All in all, it was a typical meal in the House of Sarek, concluded quickly and formally. Sybok was very proficient at his duty as an older brother, and Spock was never entirely forgotten or dismissed. It was times like this that Spock truly loved his brother…and then he remembered that he was most likely to be ambushed with some dastardly scheme quite shortly.  
  
It never came. Before Spock could think to ask, dinner was concluded, dessert in the form of alcohol and dry cake was consumed rapidly, and those who were inclined left for nighttime activities. Spock, for his part, did what he usually did in the late evenings: prepared for bed, sat in his bedchamber, and read. His selection was limited as he did not have personal servants and didn’t often visit open markets himself, but what texts he did have—religious works and the like—were things he treasured, with or without a physical copy. It was a peaceful hobby, much as his life was, and he lounged in bed with the shutters closed and the artificial lighting dimmed, holding a slim device just inches from his chest as he perused the words like each was a rare treasure.  
  
Naturally, that was when there was a knock at his door, and Spock was surprised even as he automatically slid his datapadd onto his nightstand and rose. It was fortunate he was still wearing his robe, and that he had always preferred pajamas at night.  
  
“Come in,” he called, and the door opened to reveal a young man of average height with a bland haircut and a forgettable face. Nonetheless, Spock remembered his name, for he was Sybok’s personal assistant.  
  
“Kuvon?”  
  
Kuvon inclined his head in greeting.  
  
“Yes, Mister Spock.”  
  
The respectful address did not surprise Spock, as Kuvon had always liked him as much as a servant ever liked the masters of their house. Spock, in return, was always polite and inquisitive, perhaps too much so in light of his position.  
  
“How may I help you? Is Abigail settling in well?” Abigail was a young woman who had recently been added to their household, with dark skin and dark eyes and a facial structure that suggested Cardassian lineage although her name suggested otherwise. Kuvon was quite taken with her, and had enlisted Spock’s knowledge of the ins and outs of the house when she had first arrived, weeks ago now.  
  
Kuvon looked startled, as if he thought Spock had forgotten so quickly, and then he looked slightly sheepish.  
  
“Yes, sir. Thank you for asking, sir. My master sent me with a gift for you, however—to celebrate your adulthood ceremony. He says he had forgotten until this afternoon, and begs your pardon.”  
  
“A gift?” Spock felt his eyes narrow. “What kind of gift?”  
  
Kuvon smiled politely.  
  
“A Kirk, sir.”  
  
“A Kirk?” Spock repeated, and then he frowned. The word was not Vulcan, that was certain, but even with his knowledge of several trading languages, he could not place its origins or its meaning. “What exactly is a Kirk?”  
  
Kuvon bowed slightly, and then gestured in the direction of the hallway, a gesture easily interpreted as “come here.” Spock’s suspicions worsened.  
  
“Mister Spock, may I present Kirk? He is a newly acquired slave, and Sybok wishes to give him to you.”  
  
The second door opened, and Spock was not ashamed to say that he was struck dumb, momentarily, by the appearance of the young man named Kirk. Not just by the tight clothing he wore, also of unrecognizable origins but bearing clear signs of being selected to suit his form best, nor because his coloring was odd— _human_ —with gold hair and pink-hued skin and blue eyes. No, Spock was more startled by the fact that he noticed his eye color at all—specifically, because _Kirk_  was meeting his eyes, something that not even lifelong servants of the House of Sarek dared to do.  
  
Sybok had given him a bedslave, and a  _defiant_  bedslave nonetheless. Spock was going to kill him, but first…”Kuvon, there must be some mistake.”  
  
Kuvon frowned minutely, the expression just barely a dip of his lips.  
  
“Not that I am aware of, sir. He specifically stated that Kirk was to go to you after his arrival this evening.”  
  
Spock winced internally; it was likely, then, that Sybok had been planning this for some time. That would make it difficult to return Kirk to whichever market he had been purchased from, and Spock was not looking forward to it.  
  
“He said that, did he?”  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
Spock sighed and glanced at Kirk, who watched them both intently. Spock rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily.  
  
“Kuvon, Sybok knows I do not keep slaves. At all. Neither does he, in fact.” For Spock, it was a matter of not needing extra help in any way. He had no land to be maintained, and he did not require a personal assistant; even if he had, he would likely have filled these places with paid workers, as Sybok had done. The idea that Sybok would get him a slave—specifically  _this kind of slave_ —was both odd and troubling.  
  
Did Sybok believe he was so desperate that someone had to be enslaved for his use…and a man at that? Where on Vulcan had Sybok gotten such an idea?  
  
“I believe there are extenuating circumstances, but I did not ask. Am I to understand you are refusing Master Sybok’s gift?”  
  
 _A person is not a gift._  Spock didn’t say it; he knew this opinion was unpopular, and influenced by reading the works of peaceful peoples when he was too young to understand that such a philosophy was not the Vulcan way.  
  
“Yes. Yes, I am.” He did not look at Kirk again, certain the man still watched them, and certain that the rejection was clear. Slave or not, it must have hurt to be rejected.  
  
Kuvon looked…surprised, and strangely disappointed at Spock’s response. Surely he did not believe Spock would accept the strange  _gift_ ? However, his next words made the expression clear.  
  
“Very well. Mister Suvar also expressed some interest in ownership, so I will confer with Sybok on this matter.”  
  
“Suvar?” Spock swallowed reflexively, and his stomach twisted. Suvar was known for cruelty, and he was one of many who considered any sort of being—even intelligent beings!—disposable. “Kuvon, wait.” Kuvon did indeed pause in his farewell bow, and he looked at Spock questioningly. Kirk still watched them. “He may remain here until I speak with my brother.”  
  
“Very good, sir. I will inform Master Sybok.” Kuvon dipped a quick bow, and Spock knew exactly how this was going to go.  
  
“Kuvon—” But Kuvon was already gone, having unloaded his burden on Spock, and unloaded it easily. Spock turned to look at said burden, who was leaning casually against the nearest wall and still watching Spock with those unnerving, insolent eyes. Spock didn’t even know if he  _understood Vulcan._  
  
“Your name is Kirk, correct?”  
  
“That’s me.” Well, that answered the question of whether or not he knew the language. It was a relief, not having to teach him the words, but it also presented another problem. If Kirk was familiar enough with their language, he must have been familiar with their culture, and yet he still stared rather than respectfully lowering his eyes.  
  
He did not behave like a slave should have.  
  
“And your age?”  
  
A shrug this time, and his tone was lazy. Disinterested.  
  
“I’m old enough.”  
  
A sudden thought occurred to Spock, and he cursed Sybok for the hundredth time that night. Kirk was a bedslave—his clothes and appearance attested to this—but what if he was new at this? Freshly captured?  
  
“Where are you from?”  
  
Oh, there was wariness then. Wariness and annoyance, and Spock was almost…amused? Curious.  
  
“None of your business.”  
  
Spock sighed and walked towards the inner room; if asked, he would not say he was pacing. Kirk followed, at least enough to take in Spock’s relatively garish bedroom—the decorations were not his choice or his expense, and Spock wondered what opinion Kirk formed without understanding that simple fact.  
  
And all the while, Spock watched him, watched the way he moved with confidence rather than caution, boldness rather than respect even for his surroundings and the danger they might have brought. It was something Spock could almost say was an admirable trait, if misplaced in a slave.  
  
“You are from one of the Terran colonies, I suppose,” Spock finally concluded, and Kirk’s back stiffened noticeably.  
  
“Why do you think that?”  
  
The answer was simple to Spock.  
  
“You do not have the good sense to be scared.” As humans were, as they should have been. Vulcan had been conquering planets for hundreds of years before they even became interested in the tiny planet of Earth, and when not conquering, they had been devising new and better ways to do so. Any species that had achieved warp drive only in the past two centuries should have been scared of such experience, and most of them were…but not Kirk.  
  
“Why should I be scared? You’re just like humans.”  
  
“Just like humans?” Spock repeated the words softly, and he waited for Kirk to nod before he dove at him, knocking him to the silk bedspread and pinning him easily. Kirk looked startled and then he looked annoyed, but Spock paid no heed; there were some things that every being on Vulcan learned eventually, after all, and although he found the actions distasteful, Kirk would have to learn that Vulcans were dangerous creatures in many ways. “Vulcans have three times the speed and strength of humans. Our natural lives are twice as long. According to many sources, our wits are keener and our intelligence greater. No, we are not like humans. However…it would be inaccurate to say that we do not share some weaknesses.”  
  
The speech ended quickly, and it was followed by an irritated noise from Kirk as he pushed ineffectively at Spock’s hands on his shoulders, and then—clearly realizing that Spock was not to be moved that way—he attempted to free his lower body from the clasp of Spock’s knees on either side of his hips. This also did not work, and it was also an important lesson; before long, Kirk was huffing from the effort, his cheeks and neck flushed a darker pink and his skin shone with sweat, and he was still quite trapped.  
  
At this point, Spock had the rather startling thought that—objectively speaking—Kirk was quite attractive…in an alien way. He supposed that was why Sybok had chosen him; after deciding that Vulcans failed to stir Spock’s blood, he must have concluded that human coloring might instinctively be more appealing, at least to one-half of his genetics. He was wrong, of course, but Spock could see why he would make such assumptions. Kirk was really  _very_  attractive, and a bedslave besides.  _Had_  Sybok been correct (which, Spock repeated to himself, he most certainly was not) Spock would have had a lover for the first time in his life.  
  
It was an interesting thought.  
  
“Would you please me, I wonder?” Spock didn’t realize that he’d murmured the words into open air until Kirk’s eyes widened.  
  
“ _No._ ” The revulsion in that single word alone was enough to snuff whatever ideas had been brewing in Spock’s head. He was relieved to find it that simple, that a single clear rejection was enough—for a moment, he had doubted, wondered perhaps if he was an animal who did not care about consent, who did not care about the misery and fear transmitted through touch. Still, it would have made his life much easier if Sybok had believed Spock had arousal for Kirk that was genuine and strong and unquenchable, like that of most male Vulcans newly into adulthood.  
  
Spock had never experienced arousal in his life, and he didn’t now. It made it easy to release a clearly-alarmed Kirk and roll to the side without a second glance.  
  
“You are probably correct. I am sure Sybok will be displeased to discover this, but no matter. You are here now, and—I assure you—quite safe.” He glanced back at Kirk, who was still lying on the ruby-colored comforter , looking startled now. Spock looked away quickly, not entirely sure he was comfortable with the idea that Kirk was  _puzzled_  by the fact he had been released when he was obviously unwilling. “I have never kept a slave before, much less one with your…assigned role. The rules are different between the two cases, and I do not know them.”  
  
Kirk seemed to recover enough to shift, and to snort.  
  
“Gee, I feel terrible about that.”  
  
“For the time being, you will sleep there,” Spock continued, ignoring him as he pointed to an open corner in his spacious bedroom. Currently there was a broken, poorly-crafted settee occupying that space, but Spock imagined the cushions would be welcome, at least as a temporary bed. “I will look into acquiring you some bedclothes for the future as necessary, but for the moment, the nights are warm and it is not required.”  
  
“We sleep in the same room?” Kirk asked unnecessarily, and Spock nodded.  
  
“Of course,” he replied, not looking to see if Kirk was unduly bothered by that fact. He was surprised to find he did not wish to know. “It would look odd otherwise, and as Sybok is the one who gave you to me…” He did not explain any further, and he doubted he needed to. It was important not to offend Sybok.  
  
“Yeah, and why’d he do that? Your girlfriend not giving it up?”  
  
Spock looked at Kirk with a frown on his face, not understanding the majority of what he had said, as his words slipped easily between standard Vulcan and what he suspected was a common English phrase.  
  
“You mean my  _inamorata_ ?” After all, Spock had no idea what a “girlfriend” was, although he could guess. The only equivalent word he could think of happened to be Italian, and he was surprised when Kirk seemed to understand it. He was more surprised to see Kirk look at  _him_  with surprise.  
  
“Yeah, whatever.”  
  
“No, that is not my situation.”  
  
“Oh.” The subject was changed quickly. “What should I call you, anyway? ‘Cause I sure as hell ain’t calling you  _master._ ”  
  
Spock felt his lips twitch for the first time in weeks. No, months—since his adulthood ceremony, in fact.  
  
“You may call me Mister Spock.”  
  
Kirk nodded at the response, looking contemplative.  
  
“Spock, huh? Very Vulcan.”  
  
Spock was surprised at the compliment.  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
Kirk looked at him like he was afflicted with some manner of mental disorder, and then laughed quietly. Laughter was also not a common occurrence in Spock’s world, and he considered—very briefly—that he might miss Kirk after he returned him to Sybok. The man was simply a compilation of rarities, and it was oddly charming. Dangerous, but charming.  
  
“Sure, no problem.”  
  
Spock let silence fill the room, and—as an afterthought—he removed the red comforter from his bed and piled it on the settee. Additional padding, as it were, and if Kirk were an experienced bedslave, he was undoubtedly used to beds himself, something that Spock could not provide readily. He would, however, have to provide him with more appropriate clothes, and this brought up a question that he should have addressed earlier.  
  
“Do you have any possessions? I will fetch them from my brother if so.”  
  
The mention of Sybok seemed to spur Kirk into action, or at least compliance with his station.  
  
“Nah, don’t worry about it—I’ll fetch. I  _love_  to fetch.”  
  
“Very well. The door will be unlocked until you return, but please remember to lock it behind you.”  
  
Kirk nodded and slipped out the door without another word, and Spock took the opportunity to burrow himself in his own blankets, giving the command for the lights immediately afterwards. Although he was not tired, he still closed his eyes determinedly, forgetting about both his plans to read and the relatively early hour.  
  
It was awkward enough when they were awake and in the same room; perhaps it would be better if they were asleep. And so, without another thought as to the logic of this theory, Spock willed himself to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

True to Spock’s experience with Sybok and his schemes, his brother was conspicuously absent the next morning. Apparently, Sybok had had a midnight revelation, and he had decided to leave on an early hunting trip on the off chance that some of the night creatures were slow to hide from the dawn. The area he selected for this escape was quite dangerous, not just because of the animals that roamed the countryside, but also because the rocks of Sha’Tyem blocked communications very effectively. There was no way to call for help and, unfortunately, there was also no way to call back a hunting party or, in Spock’s case, no way to have a very firm discussion with his brother via comm link.   
  
Sybok would not be back for five days, and Spock was annoyed at how easily he had been tricked and abandoned. Sybok knew that Spock would not rid himself of Kirk without a discussion, and he also knew that Spock was unlikely to go searching for him in person to have that discussion; as a result, Spock was forced to experience days upon days of little action and even less relaxation.   
  
He had decided to keep Kirk (at least for the time being) and it was causing him no end of grief. Not that Kirk was troublesome; after their slight miscommunication that first night, Kirk proved to be obedient and quiet, as a slave should have been. Rather, Spock’s problems stemmed from the fact that he was an organized being, and Kirk served no practical purpose, a loose end, an extra button for a jacket never worn. Spock wasn’t entirely sure what to do with him. Kirk—perhaps appreciating the break from his normal tasks—did not volunteer a list of particular skills, and truth be told, Spock was unwilling to ask for such a thing. Sexual expertise was one thing he had no basis to judge, after all, and he liked to keep that fact to himself when possible, if only to avoid the discussion that would inevitably follow.   
  
And so it was that on the long days of Sybok’s trip, Spock found himself doing something he had neither planned nor done before: acquiring and assembling a bed. It was odd, but what was he to do? Despite the fact that it was probably standard practice for slaves to sleep only on the floor or in the beds they were invited to, Spock had not slept well the first night, very aware of a being shifting on the less than pristine floor. Even with cushions. Even with his bedspread. Spock could not stand it again, and the next morning, he set about locating a bed frame.   
  
The process was very delicate, and very difficult; it had to be, otherwise his limited funds would be wasted, rumors would abound, or worse, someone would question why he was purchasing a bed for a slave. Spock may have been accepted as a member of Sarek’s family, but he had no doubt that it was a result of him being useful and inoffensive. Should he show signs that he was a slave sympathizer, there would be dire consequences for the trouble he would be suspected of causing the House of Sarek, and Spock wished to avoid that. As a result, he proceeded very carefully.   
  
The bed he ended up with was not decadent—it was barely even functional, as the wood was worn and it was so low to the ground that it would have been practical to call it a frame for a pallet rather than a mattress. It was also small, significantly smaller than Spock’s own bed, and just barely big enough for Kirk, who was not a small man. There was no mattress, so Spock was forced to use the cushions from the settee after all, and the end result was something that was flat and likely not very comfortable, even topped with the bedspread Spock had decided to surrender again.   
  
Kirk watched him the entire time with a steady, unnerving gaze that Spock had come to believe was his normal expression. He did not volunteer to help with the relatively simple task, and Spock did not ask; it was a curious reversal of roles, and one that made Kirk speak for the first time in almost a day after it was completed.   
  
“You know, you’re not exactly what I expected.”   
  
Spock looked away from his work—it was a triumph, really, although it would not be winning any contests for craftsmanship in the near future—and raised an eyebrow at the observation. Kirk was now wearing a twisting grin, something that oddly suited him, and staring at Spock, unblinking. Spock did not order him to lower his eyes; he had done so earlier in the day, and such reprimands were effective for perhaps ten minutes each time.   
  
“How so?”   
  
Kirk shrugged and looked carelessly off to the side, as casual as if his  _owner_  had not just spent the better part of the day assembling something for his comfort.   
  
“I’ve been around the block a few times, met a few Vulcans. With few exceptions, they’re usually of a…a type. Hell, I’m pretty sure most would have beaten me silly by this point, because I’m not exactly meek. Or invisible.”   
  
It was Spock’s turn to look away, feigning disinterest. The truth was, he was concerned that a shameful flush would strike his cheeks. Spock wasn’t of that  _type_  because he wasn’t completely Vulcan, and apparently that fact was clear after less than a day.   
  
“I will see that I am not so lax in my standards in the future,” Spock promised instead of answering what might have been a question, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw the expression on Kirk’s face slip away. “I see you understand me.” It was a pity—Spock thought he might have welcomed an expression other than polite blankness into his life, but it appeared that was not to be.   
  
“Fine, I get it.” Kirk no longer looked amused or approachable; his expression was almost as intimidating as Sarek when he was in a bad mood. “Well, Mister über-Vulcan, what are you going to do with me?”   
  
The answer was surprisingly easy, considering he had been agonizing over it just moments ago.   
  
“You will work the fields.” That, after all, was what slaves who had no other use did. The work was backbreaking, and Spock normally would not have countenanced anyone being assigned to such a task, but he had no other options, not if he wanted to maintain his own security. Inside this room, Kirk could have relative comfort…but outside it, he would be treated like any other slave was treated by any other Vulcan.   
  
And if it seemed a shame to subject a man of Kirk’s youth and vivacity to the burning sun and the difficult labor and the lack of respect, Spock made certain that the emotion did not show.   
  
********   
  
By the morning of the next day, Spock had made all the necessary arrangements for Kirk’s labor, all without even once appearing as if he cared. Solk was the man in charge of monitoring the workload of the fields, specifically of the fields dedicated to cultivation of the  _favinit_  plant, and he seemed surprised by Spock’s insistence, as much as his old face ever displayed anything. He was even more surprised when he spotted Kirk leaning casually against the side of the building, neither fidgeting nor appearing interested in their conversation, and the look Solk shot Spock was one of dismay.   
  
“He’s going to be difficult, that one. Surely he would be better somewhere else? I mean, he’s attractive enough.”   
  
Spock was not in a very good mood already, but the observation—made casually, by someone he would consider a good acquaintance—seemed to only make it worse.   
  
“I have determined that this is the task he is most suited for. Do you doubt me?”   
  
Solk backpedaled immediately, and Spock thought he saw Kirk laugh.   
  
“Of course not. But…if you change your mind, know that these things aren’t set in stone.”   
Spock inclined his head, aware that they usually were, and that Solk was making an exception for him, no doubt because Spock had aided him once before when the crop yield was less than expected and his family was in dire straits.   
  
“Thank you, Solk. I’m sure it will not be necessary.”   
  
Spock was not entirely certain in actuality, but he did not say this. However, even as he left to resume his own duties and left Kirk in Solk’s capable hands, he felt discomfort, strong and insidious. It followed him back to his work, bothered him all through the day and most of the night, disturbing his sleep more than a quiet Kirk who slipped into bed at the end of his own work day, just before dawn. It continued to bother Spock in the morning hours, despite the fact that the work seemed to suit Kirk well enough after one day, and it made it so that when good news finally arrived, he was not as appreciative as he should have been.   
  
Sybok had returned. This was, of course, whispered in between great admiring shouts of his kills—a  _le-matya_ , something that was truly impressive to the hunting crowd, along with a variety of animals who were not such threats—but Spock was not concerned with such things.  _Le-matyas_  were stringy and tough and barely edible, and Spock did not understand hunting for sport—it was things like this that had always made him unable to fit in with Sybok’s friends, all of whom praised the practice.   
  
But all of this did not matter, because Sybok had returned and Spock had much to discuss with him. He expected Sybok to anticipate this and avoid him, but curiously enough, when Sybok returned, he sought Spock out in his office immediately, clothes still covered with mud and crusted liquid that might have been blood.   
  
Sybok, of course, smiled immediately, and Spock couldn’t help but return the expression faintly despite his mood.   
  
“Spock! Don’t tell me you’ve been sitting here all alone since I left?”   
  
The smug, knowing question made Spock’s instinctive joy at seeing his older brother disappear.   
  
“You know very well that I have not been. What game are you playing at, Sybok?”   
  
Sybok looked away, the action deliberately casual. He examined the hangings on Spock’s office wall—simple things, such as a thank you letter from a family on the outskirts of their province—with all the interest of an art student at a museum, and Spock knew he was stalling.   
  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Are you feeling well, baby brother?”   
  
Spock scoffed.   
  
“Sybok, you gave me a slave. A  _bedslave_ .” The was enough emphasis on the last word to convey all of Spock’s feelings on the matter, but Sybok didn’t look contrite in the least. He was a spoiled nobleman in that way: all problems, even the ones he had caused, were beneath his notice.   
  
“Not really.” Spock started to say exactly what he felt about the easy dismissal of the matter, but Sybok hurriedly continued. “I mean, sure, that’s what he is. But Spock, you and I both know that a person isn’t completely defined by their role. That’s why I gave him to you—changing roles, brother.”   
  
Spock felt as though he were missing something. There was something about Sybok’s tone…but then Spock thought of Kirk, how he appeared different than the slaves Spock had met before, and he thought he understood.   
  
“You mean he doesn’t deserve his life.”   
  
Sybok smiled, the expression mocking, but of what, Spock was not certain.   
  
“As a slave? You bet he doesn’t. He’s just had…circumstances force him into it.”   
  
Spock nodded along with the vague explanation, wondering why that made a difference. He knew that  _circumstances_ were what led to the enslavement of anyone, and this was why he felt so guilty and so often, but somehow it made a difference when faced with the reality of it, a person to match to the consequences of Vulcan raids and invasions. Perhaps Kirk’s colony had been invaded. Perhaps he was one of the few humans native to Earth, the home planet of the human race. Perhaps he had been born in space. Perhaps his family had been lost, sacrificed to rebellion and discontent. Perhaps he had even been born on Vulcan (Spock doubted this last possibility, however.) His origins did not matter so much as the fact that he was here, now, and against his will…something Sybok knew, and that apparently made a difference.   
  
“You gave him to me so that he could have peace and security.”   
  
Sybok smiled and slapped him on the back in a gesture of camaraderie not native to their culture. It made Spock uncomfortable.   
  
“Right in one. People will stop spreading rumors about you, he won’t have to deal with dangerous people, and maybe you’ll both find some comfort in each other. How is this bad?”   
  
Spock did not point out that “dangerous people” was a loosely defined term, or that Kirk no doubt saw the attempt to “rescue” him as an affront to the pride he still had. Spock himself saw problems appearing in front of him like so many wild animals, waiting for an opportunity to strike, and he knew that the adjustment would not be easy.   
  
But Spock said none of this, because Sybok was so simple sometimes, and he knew that such complaints would only bore him.   
  
“Things like this are complicated, Sybok,” he finally said, and Sybok responded with a shrug and an easy wave before he proceeded to poke around in the loose papers on Spock’s desk. Spock snatched them away reflexively, and Sybok shrugged again.   
  
“I’ll take your word for it—I don’t understand, of course. You’re so much smarter than me in that, Spock.”   
  
It was something Sybok said often. Although it made Spock feel warm every time, the compliment had long since lost its ability to distract him.   
  
“Flatterer. This doesn’t change the fact that you didn’t ask.”   
  
Sybok smiled, completely unperturbed by Spock’s quick discerning of his intent.   
  
“Damn, I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.” Spock didn’t comment immediately, and Sybok took the silence as an excuse to glance around the office as if he expected Kirk to emerge from a cabinet or a floorboard. “Hey, where is he, anyway?”   
  
“Working. I was uncertain what to do with him.” Spock didn’t say where he was working and Sybok didn’t ask; it was better this way, as Sybok no doubt had other things he considered more important and Spock felt curiously ashamed of assigning Kirk to the fields in light of Sybok’s intentions.   
  
“Alright. I have to go show my kill to T’Sing now. Do you think she’ll be impressed?”   
  
Spock started at the quick change of subject, but he responded as easily as if he had expected it all along.   
  
“I’m sure she will be, Sybok.” T’Sing, after all, was enamored of all of Sybok’s accomplishments, something they both knew. Spock suspected that anyone who treated him with such reverence would only be a bother, but Sybok reveled in it. According to him, it was the only good thing about having a wife.   
  
“Let’s hope so. And Spock, remember—people aren’t defined by their roles.”   
  
It was on this serious note that Sybok departed, but Spock stared after him, long after the possibility of his return.   
  
_People aren’t defined by their roles_ …it was a strange piece of advice coming from someone as defined by his role as Sybok, but for reasons beyond his understanding, Spock took heed of those words.   
  
********   
  
If Spock had expected his world to change after his conversation with Sybok, he was disappointed when very little did. He still had much to accomplish, not the least of which was Solk’s request for funding for further equipment for his workers and Mister Solak’s request for medical aid for his daughter, a sickly little thing that Spock feared would not last the winter. These were important decisions to make, and Spock made them to the best of his abilities, including writing a very polite letter to Solk informing him that the funds were not available as of this moment. It was a demanding two hours, primarily because Spock had no gift for the written word, but at the end of his work day, he was confident that the task had been completed in a way to neither offend Solk nor make it readily apparent that he had chosen to authorize Mister Solak’s request despite the lack of profit. Also, he had had a somewhat difficult time finding the necessary ink for his pen, as it was under the desk of his still-absent assistant for reasons that he could not fathom.   
  
It was strange that, given all of the other things his mind had lingered on during his work, his thoughts immediately jumped to Sybok, Kirk and  _roles_  as soon as his day had ended. He had no qualms with the subject—it was something he welcomed discussion of, in fact—but the idea that Sybok might be encouraging what Spock suspected was an illegal proceeding that continued to bother him. Equal treatment, and respecting their lessers…Sybok had never advocated it before, or at least not that Spock had heard. It was strange that he would begin to do so with Kirk, and the thought led Spock to wonder what exactly was special about him, along with who Sybok had been talking to.   
  
As far as Spock was aware, Kirk was a normal human male in his twenties. He was attractive, yes, and he had a level of self-confidence and determination that surprised Spock, but this alone was not terribly odd. As for Sybok…well, Spock was certain by the late evening that Sybok had not in fact had a change of heart, as he spent their dinner bragging and displaying a gruesome animal hide to any who would care to see it. It was perfectly normal for Sybok, and so Spock convinced himself he must have imagined it, all of it.   
  
But when he reached his bed chamber, empty of Kirk’s presence at such an early hour, he still settled into his bed to read a book that seemed to echo his brother’s words. It was a small, simple thing by itself— _The Teachings of Surak_ , something a merchant had brought down from the monks in the hills just a few years ago—but it had caused a wave, or so Spock had heard. The words advocated emotionless logic and peace, and for a species as warlike as Vulcans, the idea was ludicrous…but those words also advocated equality between ranks, and it was for this reason that Spock kept it, even hid it from others when necessary. If one Vulcan could believe this, could teach it to others as fact, could inspire, perhaps one day Spock himself would be able to speak out against those things that made him feel guilt and disgust, one day when he had nothing else to lose.   
  
It was a pleasant thought, and one that was interrupted by a thud against his door. Spock instinctively slid the book underneath his pillow and rose, expecting a voice asking for permission to enter, but there was nothing. Only another thud, the quick jangle of a door knob, and then Kirk’s blond head and slumped shoulders slipped through the opening. Upon seeing Spock, he immediately straightened.   
  
“Sorry. I didn’t think you’d still be up.”   
  
Spock had not been aware of the hour—past two, something that surprised him—and so he refrained from pointing out that the lights were still on. He was indeed normally sleeping at this hour, and it was not unusual for people to assume that, especially those as apparently tired as Kirk appeared.   
  
“It is alright. I was planning on sleeping soon.”   
  
Kirk nodded along, but he didn’t appear to register the words as he moved stiffly to the corner that held his belongings, his bed, and his single set of sleep wear.   
  
“Okay. That’s fine then.”   
  
Spock felt a bristle of annoyance. Had Kirk just given  _him_  permission? Swiftly, Spock turned back to his own bed and prepared to extinguish the lights, well aware that Kirk was not finished changing.   
  
“Goodnight, Kirk.” The words came out coldly and were followed by darkness, and Kirk did not complain; he knew that much, at least.   
  
“Goodnight, Mister Spock.” It was quiet, too quiet, and Spock felt uneasy. This feeling was only intensified by the sounds of bedclothes being depressed and then something that sounded like a gasp.   
  
Spock waited. Kirk shifted, and there it was again—a grunt this time. He clicked the lights back on, and saw Kirk lying on his stomach with his blanket pulled up to the base of his head. It was unusual for such warm weather, even for a species as odd as humans.   
  
“Kirk? Are you alright?”   
  
Kirk grunted again, but the sound was different. Spock knew it was different.   
  
“I’m fine, thanks for asking.”   
  
“If I were to approach you, would I find that you are lying to me?”   
  
This time the sound that answered him was a sigh.   
  
“Yeah, probably. Don’t get up, though—it’s really fine.”   
  
Spock got up, against Kirk’s wishes and perhaps against his better judgment. Kirk did not wish for his help, but something told Spock that he needed it anyway, and Spock was not cruel.   
  
He came to stand beside Kirk’s bed, his feet bare and cold on the floor. He had forgotten his slippers, but the thought was unimportant. If Spock was not mistaken, there was red on the base of Kirk’s neck, red not a part of his natural coloring or of his clothing.   
  
Humans had red blood. That shade, if Spock was not mistaken.   
  
“You are injured.”   
  
Kirk snorted, a surprisingly lighthearted sound for all the pain he must have been experiencing.   
  
“Yeah, well, whips do that.”   
  
Spock started, and his eyes instinctively found Kirk’s discarded work shirt. As he feared, it too had the faintest traces of reddish brown, and this time in a crisscrossed pattern.   
  
“Whips? Why were you whipped?” Solk did not condone whips; it was his best quality.   
  
Kirk shrugged, and then hissed when the motion pulled at his skin. His nightshirt—the same fabric as his day clothing—must have stuck in the wounds, and they must have been numerous.   
  
“I might have shoved an overseer? Either that or I was moving too slowly—I’m not entirely sure.”   
  
“Surely Solk would not—”   
  
“That old guy? No, I don’t work on his fields—I was loaned out to work for this other guy. Sumed?”   
  
“Sumod. He is Suvar’s brother, I believe.” Spock had never met him personally, but if appearances were to be believed, he had inherited his elder brother’s tendency towards brutality.   
  
“He’s a bit heavy-handed,” Kirk supplied, unnecessarily. Spock scoffed.   
  
“I believe that is obvious.” Without warning, Spock pulled the cover aside—it was no good, for aside from an odd bunching of the fabric, he could not see even an outline of Kirk’s injuries. “Remove your shirt.” Kirk complied immediately and without hesitation although he moved gingerly. Spock would have been surprised by the obedience, but he was too distracted by the ugly marks across Kirk’s skin. They were not as deep as he had feared, but they were long, and on top of others that looked less recent. Combined with the linger of stale sweat and the spicy residue of _favinit_  pollen, they were also angry and red. “You need a doctor. Were you whipped yesterday as well?”   
  
Kirk finally turned his head to look up at him, and Spock could not place his expression. Spock looked away from his blue eyes almost without his decision, but unfortunately, the result was that his gaze immediately locked onto the gashes again.   
  
“Yeah, but that one wasn’t as bad.  _That_  one was because I made a joke.”   
  
“I see. Repeat offenders are often treated more harshly,” Spock explained, but the words were weak as he stared. _Nobody should be treated this way_ …but he did not say it, as Kirk laughed, somewhat tiredly.   
  
“I wonder what I’m gonna get tomorrow.”   
  
“Nothing.” It could never happen again; Spock’s conscience would not allow it, and if he had his way, no farms that employed such methods in this province would ever receive funding again. Warlike they might have been as a species, but this sort of treatment was  _barbaric_ . It could never happen again.   
  
“Huh?” Kirk looked startled and Spock didn’t blame him, as Spock himself was surprised by his sudden decision.   
  
“I had intended to relocate you to the kitchens. You appear dexterous—it would be a more logical assignment.” It was an assignment that Spock had never considered, and he regretted this now, enough so that he couldn’t meet Kirk’s eyes for an entirely different reason. “I will return shortly.”   
  
Spock left before Kirk could respond even if he had chosen to do so, hurrying on feet still bare and in only his robe to the one person he knew would be up at this hour; their resident insomniac and doctor, T’Vora. She was wise for her young age and gifted, and Spock knew she would not mind treating a slave, even though most probably would have refused on principle.   
  
Even so, she still gave him an odd look when he explained the situation, and her eyes took in what was truly unusual attire for someone as proper as Spock always attempted to be.   
  
“So…is he dying?” The question was asked casually, too casually for Spock’s comfort, but he replied as though the idea of Kirk becoming a corpse in the near future did not alarm him.   
  
“Doubtful. However, he is in pain and quite probably at risk for further injury. Both are unnecessary, I might add.”   
She sighed, long and low, and went back inside her quarters. When she came out, it was with her long hair pulled back, her robe tied, and a bag of medical supplies in one hand.   
  
“Alright. Is he in the slave barracks?”   
  
“No. He is in my quarters.”   
  
She raised an eyebrow, but thankfully, she was the first to refrain from commenting on that. Spock, who had never known her outside of the vaguest of details, planned to thank her in the near future for the small courtesies she had shown him.   
  
“Alright. Is it just whip wounds?”   
  
“To my knowledge, yes.” Although he would not put it past Kirk to withhold other injuries, especially since he seemed to be of the belief that no wound—no matter how real—was serious. It was quite irritating.   
  
But still, Spock hurried, with T’Vora at his side. He imagined they looked like quite the sight to anyone who might happen upon them, but thankfully no one did, and they reached his quarters without incident. Upon entering, he saw that Kirk was alarmingly still, and he feared the worst…until Kirk waved at them.   
  
“Hello! Nice night, isn’t it?”   
  
T’Vora scoffed, gave Spock a look that was just short of annoyed, and moved steadily to where Kirk lay, head propped on his hands. T’Vora made an inquisitive noise, and then poked with sure fingers at the inflamed flesh. Kirk winced, and Spock waited.   
  
“They’re not that deep,” she finally said, much to Spock’s relief. “However, they should have been treated earlier, which means they’ll take a while to heal. No stitches, though, and no expensive mending required. They will scar.”   
  
Spock nodded along with the explanation, watching as she cleaned and dressed the wounds with salve and gauze, the medical methods of older times. Of course, she did not have a transportable flesh knitting device—such things were saved for those who were considered members of the household rather than possessions. It occurred to Spock, somewhat abstractly, that this was not fair, but the justification was that a punishment meant little if whoever experienced it could have the marks easily healed.   
  
Still, T’Vora’s methods were clean and efficient and quick, and in no time at all, she was finished.   
  
“That should hold it. I wouldn’t recommend him doing heavy labor for a few days.” Spock nodded, and she gave him a disdainful look. “Normally I wouldn’t say that either, considering he’s a slave, but you’re an odd one, Mister Spock. Careful your father doesn’t find out.”   
  
Spock stiffened, but she left without a single threatening word; a simple warning, then.   
  
“Well, she’s just a barrel of fun, isn’t she?”   
  
Spock turned to look back at Kirk, who was watching the door with an amused expression.   
  
“She is one of our household doctors. They are not fun.” Kirk gave a startled laugh for reasons Spock did not understand. “Are you able to rest comfortably now?”   
  
“Yes. Whatever she gave me had a pain killer—I’m sure everything will scab up by tomorrow, and I’ll be as right as rain.”   
  
The combination of what must have been human terms with Vulcan language made Spock’s head swim.   
  
“I do not understand what you said.”   
  
“I said ‘thanks, I owe you one.’”   
  
The phrase, while still odd, was easily understood this time. However, it was also not true.   
  
“You do not. I should have made it explicitly clear to Solk that I did not wish for you to be fostered to a landowner that I had not approved of.” Spock had not thought it necessary, but clearly, he had been wrong.   
  
Kirk just looked at him.   
  
“Still, you could have just ignored me.”   
  
“Unlikely, as Vulcans have very acute hearing.”   
  
“That’s not what I meant, you know.” Spock opened his mouth to question him further when Kirk gave an exasperated sigh. “Just accept the thank you and the freebie, will you?”   
  
Spock raised an eyebrow.   
  
“’Freebie?’” Whatever it was, it sounded perfectly unappealing.   
  
“Yeah. If you have any questions about human culture, I’m happy to answer.”   
  
The open invitation to pry surprised Spock, as did the earnestness with which it was presented. As if Kirk knew he was curious.   
  
_Not entirely Vulcan…_   
  
“Why would I have questions about such a thing?”   
  
“So you don’t have any?” The look on Kirk’s face was knowing, and Spock wondered who he had talked to about this. As far as Spock could tell, he had met with no one in the few days he had been here.   
  
Still, the assumption was…accurate, and a memory sprang up, one that had confused Spock for many years.   
  
“I did not say that.” Kirk waited. “There is…one thing that you may clarify for me. An action.”   
  
Kirk looked impatient, and Spock should have chastised him for it. Would have, in fact, were he not curious.   
  
“What?”   
  
“There is something that I have seen between an acquaintance and his human bedslave. It is a connection of the lips.” To a fourteen year old Spock, the idea had seemed revolting. Sybok had laughed at his concerns, and had not explained. Spock had never felt comfortable asking again.   
  
“A kiss?”   
  
The word sounded familiar, but strange—it was a human word, one with no Vulcan equivalent. Of course, this made perfect sense.   
  
“If that is what it is called. We have no such thing on Vulcan, and I wonder…what is the appeal of such contact?”   
  
Kirk rubbed at the back of his neck, his hands smoothing the short hairs. He looked as though he were thinking very seriously about the matter, something that Spock appreciated.   
  
“Expression of affection? I dunno, it really depends on what exactly they were doing.”   
  
Spock swallowed, and he wondered if the sound was truly as loud as it seemed.   
  
“May I?”   
  
Kirk raised his eyebrow in a fair imitation of T’Vora.   
  
“You’re asking if you can kiss me?” There was a note of incredulity to his voice, and Spock immediately shrank back.   
  
“For demonstration purposes.”   
  
“Then sure. Knock yourself out.” Spock frowned, and Kirk explained quickly. “I mean, go ahead.”   
  
Spock scooted forward on his heels, and Kirk watched him. Spock leaned forward, gaze focused on the point of Kirk’s chin rather than too-close eyes, and he pressed their lips together, very briefly, before pulling back. He tasted nothing, so it was not unpleasant per se, but the scents that assaulted him—sweat and uncleanliness and pollen—made the experience something he was unwilling to repeat.   
  
He would have to see that Kirk was afforded more bathing privileges, as he would not have him stinking up the room.   
  
 “Well, that was definitely the affectionate kind.”   
  
Kirk looked entirely too amused and Spock sighed; he had expected as much, but it was a confirmation long overdue.   
  
“I still do not understand the appeal.”   
  
Kirk smiled then, an honest, real smile, or so it felt to Spock. He could not be positive, however, as they no longer touched.   
  
“To be honest, neither do I. Not of that type, anyway.”   
  
Spock felt dismay, and discomfort.   
  
“There are types?”   
  
Kirk waved it away with a gesture not unlike Sybok’s, and Spock thought it odd until he recalled that Kirk had been Sybok’s property until recently; it was not unusual to pick up habits.   
  
“Yeah, but don’t worry about it. I’m pretty sure it’ll never come up.”   
  
Spock hoped so.   
  
“Very well.” He stood, his legs stiff. It had gone well past three, but curiously enough, Spock was not tired. If anything, he was wide awake. “Goodnight, Kirk.”   
  
He moved back to his bed just in time to hear Kirk’s reply, said to his back.   
  
“Goodnight, Mister Spock.”   
  
Spock did not turn around until he’d extinguished the light, and then he was met with only darkness, and the faint outlined form of a content Kirk.   
  
Drifting off to sleep was surprisingly easy after that.


	3. Chapter 3

Kirk performed his new duties without flaw or trouble for six days, and by the end of the sixth, Spock had lulled himself into a false sense of security about the matter, assuming it was settled. Working in the kitchens, while not easy, was not considered hard labor, with no blistering heat or abusive overseers, no specific quota to make or restrictive rules to obey. Vulcans, after all, had no great sense of taste—of smell, yes, but this was another matter entirely, and the result was that the culinary arts were not considered a great reward to a household. As long as the food prepared was in large enough quantities, somewhat passable as a meal, and on time, no Vulcan of the household bothered to interfere. On days when there were no social events or important guests, kitchen duty revolved entirely around meals, beginning as the sun rose and ending approximately two hours after dinner was completed. It was a short shift, the shortest shift any slave ever experienced, and Spock considered it perfect, both for Spock’s morality and Kirk’s healing back. It was perfect…or so it was for six days.   
  
Nobody explained to Spock exactly what had happened on the seventh day. It was not because he didn’t ask or because the other workers in the area were inclined to keep secrets, but simply because there had been no witnesses. Somehow, this  _event_  had occurred when the normally bustling kitchen was deserted, when everyone had left save for Kirk to serve the household dinner. One instant, everything was fine, Spock calmly eating his spiced greens while Sybok told some anecdote that everyone had heard multiple times, and then there was a crash, a quick series of thuds, and something that sounded suspiciously like a shout from the kitchen.   
  
Spock did not stand immediately; like his peers, he did not imagine that the matter was anything serious, and their household had numerous armed guards to attend to it if it was. However, the silence that followed was unnerving and noticeable even under the hum of dinner conversation, and so Spock—curious—excused himself and went to investigate.   
  
To say that the kitchen had been destroyed was an understatement, and considering Spock had seen the room in various states of disarray over his lifetime, this was something of note. Pots and pans were strewn across the floors and countertops (including several that still contained that evening’s meal), and there was a noticeable scattering of eating utensils and knives across the stone floor; it looked like the kitchen had been the location for a terrible brawl, and Spock knew he was gaping. He was about to send for a servant to clean up the place, in fact, when Kirk popped out from underneath one of the countertops, not looking at all surprised at the state of his surroundings.   
  
He was, however, carrying a knife, holding it fiercely in one hand until he noticed it was Spock in the entryway, and then he straightened, setting the tool aside almost too-casually.   
  
“Mister Spock. What can I do for you?”   
  
Spock was not distracted by the cheerful tone, and he looked around again.   
  
“What happened? Where are the kitchen servants?” It was, now that he thought of it, quite odd that they were absent, especially since dinner—and therefore any duties that required them to leave the kitchen—had ended several minutes ago.   
  
Kirk looked sheepish, but Spock couldn’t help but feel his expression was forced, and designed to give exactly that impression. His wounds still bothered him, perhaps.   
  
“There was a bit of an accident, and they’re, er, not here, as you can see. Should I go get them?”   
  
“Yes,”  Spock began, and then—realizing it was a diversion—he changed his answer abruptly. “No, that will not be necessary. What  _exactly_  happened?”   
  
Kirk did not answer immediately, and Spock was annoyed when he finally did. He was speaking  _nonsense._   
  
“Do you have many friends, Spock?”   
  
“I fail to see how that is relevant.”   
  
Kirk shrugged as though it did not matter before he began to bustle around the kitchen, picking up various items. _Erasing evidence_ , Spock thought.   
  
“It is. Just answer the question?”   
  
Spock sighed, the sound not nearly enough to fully display his aggravation.   
  
“No, not as such. I do not approve of many of the activities my peers choose to partake of in their free hours, and this has made me relatively unpopular.” If Spock was to be entirely honest, Sybok was his only ‘friend.’   
  
Kirk looked at him like he knew exactly what Spock hadn’t said.   
  
“Ah. Well, in that case, let’s just say that a friend of some of the workers asked them to leave, they did, and there was an accident.”   
  
The explanation was too simple and vague, but Spock accepted it. Mostly.   
  
“That is hardly professional.”   
  
“I know. You going to rat them out? I wouldn’t.”   
  
“It hardly matters what  _you_  would do.” Spock replied, voice harsh, and Kirk looked at him in surprise. Although Spock knew he should stand firm—knew that any other slave’s master would—it was not his nature to raise his voice without reason, and mild annoyance was not a good reason. Especially since Kirk’s reaction in this case (as he understood it) was exactly the one he would have chosen. “It is frowned upon for servants to leave their posts without reason. Sarek would not be pleased.”   
  
Kirk nodded solemnly and paused in his work. Spock couldn’t help but notice that he had done little more than separate the good silverware and dishes from those that had been broken in the ‘accident.’ Everything remained on the floor.   
  
“Your dad?”   
  
Spock frowned.   
  
“Yes, my father. I do not see why—”   
  
The door between the kitchen and the outside banged loudly, and a harried-looking middle-aged woman burst inside. Upon seeing Kirk, she scowled, but as soon as her gaze shifted to Spock, she looked…alarmed.   
  
“Oh! Mister Spock, I’m sorry! We’d just stepped out for a moment to get away from the heat, and— _what on Earth_ ?”   
  
Clearly she had seen their surroundings, then.   
  
“Mrs. S’Rang. As you can see, there has been an accident.”   
  
Her lips pursed in an attractive manner as she wiped her hands unnecessarily on her apron. She too looked as if she heard ‘accident’ and understood that she was not getting the full story, and Spock couldn’t help but think she understood more than he did. It was a thought he did not like.   
  
“I see. I’ll get this cleaned up in just a moment—was there something you needed?”   
  
“No. If you will excuse me.” He paused on his way out the door, and turned back, acting on impulse. “Yes, actually. I require Kirk’s assistance.” Mrs. S’Rang was the one in charge of the kitchen, after all, and she had always been fond of Spock. As he suspected, she relinquished her worker easily.   
  
“Ah…yes, of course. Have a good day, Mister Spock.”   
  
Spock left, followed closely by a tense Kirk. He was no doubt expecting Spock to corner him and ask for further information on the ‘accident’ in the kitchen, perhaps even using the telepathic methods at his disposal.   
  
Spock did nothing of the sort, because he had a hunch that had not yet manifested into a thought, and that hunch said that keeping Kirk out of the kitchen, at least temporarily, was best.   
  
If Kirk shot him a look of surprise when Spock simply returned to their quarters and left Kirk there with vague instructions to ‘tidy up,’ Spock ignored it, and set about instead asking other servants if they had heard the commotion from Kirk’s ‘accident’ in the kitchen.   
  
********   
  
The answer to what had happened in the kitchen revealed itself approximately two weeks after it had happened, although ‘reveal’ was not the term so much as ‘ambushed uninvolved persons.’ To be fair, this distinction was partly Spock’s own fault; he should not have interfered. He should have been distant as his peers, and paid no attention to certain oddities. And he certainly shouldn’t have kept Kirk out of the kitchens on a mere hunch.   
  
But he did, and he did for approximately eight days. He had excuses, little things that required maintenance or cleaning in his personal rooms, even delegating laundry to Kirk at some point. Normally, all of these duties were performed by those specifically assigned to those jobs…but because Spock had his unformed suspicions and because he needed excuses, he kept Kirk always within eyesight or shouting distance.   
  
On the morning of the seventh day, Spock caught Kirk smiling at him. Spock had the thought that Kirk had not been noticeably rude or disobedient for days, and also that he must have been an intelligent creature, for this smile was different from the mocking, daring expression Spock usually saw.   
  
“You don’t have to babysit me, you know.”   
  
Spock did not understand.   
  
“I do not understand. I have tasks for you to do. I ask you to do them. It is a simple matter.”   
  
Logically, it made sense. After all, Kirk was working—why did it matter where he was working? It just so happened Spock had work nearby; there was nothing else. Simple.   
  
But Kirk did not believe him, for what it was worth, and he made a curious sound, a soft hum.   
  
“Sure.” Kirk closed his eyes and shook his head, still smiling, and Spock focused back on his work before he could be trapped by Kirk’s doubting gaze. “The kitchen isn’t dangerous, you know; it really was just an accident.”   
  
“Of course. I am aware of this.” Spock was also aware that the circumstances of the accident were odd. And that any intelligent creature was capable of lying.   
  
But by the end of the next day, Spock had no more excuses, and the possibilities were limited. Kirk could not just sit idle, not without Spock possibly garnering unwanted attention, and so Spock released him back to the kitchens, back to the care of the head chef.   
  
For over a week, Spock’s suspicions seemed unfounded. Foolish. Had his brother been aware of the worry, Sybok quite probably would have laughed at him, laughed and been justified. Spock would have accepted such a reaction because the idea that he may have been over cautious inspired not shame, but relief, and Sybok’s amusement had never been intended to be cruel. However, Sybok did not find out as he quickly left on another of his hunting trips, and it did not matter anyway.   
  
Exactly two weeks after the incident was Rumarie, the time of barbarians. It was an old holiday, one that was practiced only by the particularly wealthy as it was usually a day of great splendor and decadence, and there was much drinking, feasting, and activities. As the House of Sarek was one of the leading houses of Vulcan, they celebrated it every year, but Spock had not participated since he was a young child. Once he had reached full maturity of the body, there were certain…expectations associated with participation, and Spock had never been comfortable with such actions, nor interested. He very seldom ventured out of his office during the hours of most activity, often forgetting even mealtime in his wish to be excluded. This time, however, was different, and the hunger pains struck him harder and earlier than usual. It was still daylight—he imagined it would not hurt if he were to venture outside and consume a quick meal, as he doubted the busy servants would be able to spare the time to bring him anything.   
  
Upon opening his door, Spock found the hallways quiet, all noises of merriment seeming to come from the outside of his wing, at least. There was laughter, both male and female, and too much moaning for his comfort—an adult celebration, then. He shuddered to think of where the members of his house were currently, and so rather than dwell on such unappetizing thoughts, he moved on quiet feet to the kitchen. It was empty as it had been last time, but this time, it was not an oddity—much of the cooking was outdoors today, in an attempt to allow the servants to experience the holiday secondhand. As a holiday went, it was quite public and open to all.   
  
Spock was aware that many species considered them barbarians for Rumarie alone. When he allowed himself, he felt the injustice of that, but such feelings were quickly squashed—except for the elderly and people more professional than he, Spock was one of the only ones who did not participate.   
  
However, as he rummaged through leftovers, it became readily apparent that this year, his absence did not go unnoticed.   
  
“Spock.” The deep rumble was almost directly behind him and Spock jolted, instinctively dropping his food and taking two large steps away. When he turned fully and saw who was behind him, however, he felt foolish: Suvar.   
  
“Suvar.” He felt that the greeting alone expressed his distaste effectively, and he was rewarded with an ugly twist of Suvar’s lips. No, wrong—none of Spock’s verbal cuts had ever landed on Suvar’s thick Vulcan hide, and he doubted something so mild would be the first. There had to be something else, and there it was, a light click where Suvar set a glass on the nearest counter. Spock recognized the glass—servants had been serving brandy and the incredibly potent cocoa concoction in them earlier—and the answer was obvious.   
  
_Ah. He’s drunk_ . Spock didn’t know why he hadn’t been able to smell it, actually—cocoa always lingered so heavily on those who imbibed too much, the bitter scent perfectly matching Spock’s opinion of the drink. He must have simply been distracted, but no longer—even if Suvar was mostly harmless for all his hate, drinking had made monsters of much better men.   
  
Spock took two more steps back without realizing it. Curiously enough, he was no longer hungry, nor did he have any urge to approach the icebox again, possibly ever.   
  
“Suvar,” he repeated, this time imbibing his tone with as much neutrality as he could manage. “How can I help you? Were you looking for something?” Spock was not a servant, but it was an easy enough role to perform, especially if it would rid him of Suvar’s presence long enough for him to retreat back to his office.   
  
Suvar, however, didn’t appear to hear him, and he instead reached into the nearest cabinet, snatching a bottle of cocoa liquor that was not typically served to guests.   
  
“Spock. You’re not participating today? Too Vulcan for you, I suppose?”   
  
Spock ignored the second question in favor of a polite response to the first.   
  
“No, I am not participating.” He watched as Suvar poured himself a healthy portion of the thick drink, and Spock expected him to leave immediately afterwards. He did not.   
  
“Pity.” The actual disappointment in the word startled Spock, but not for very long. “And where is that bedslave of yours?”   
  
Spock stiffened, and he did not reply immediately.   
  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he finally said, and Suvar chuckled softly.   
  
“You know. I met him in the kitchens a while ago. Very attractive.”   
  
Something clicked in Spock’s mind, and he felt triumph alongside the urge to beat Kirk for lying. An accident indeed—more likely a struggle. And with the entire kitchen empty? Suvar must have paid or threatened the other servants and slaves, but the question was  _why_ .   
  
“Why do you wish to know?”   
  
Suvar looked up, looked too intently. He swirled his drink in contemplation, and Spock waited.   
  
“I’m bored—was bored. Even during Rumarie, there are few that hold my interest for very long. Too easy.”   
  
Spock suspected it was just the opposite—that it was difficult to bully someone into being his bedpartner when they were equal to him—but he didn’t say as much. He didn’t need to; Suvar continued to speak.   
  
“Of course, I didn’t expect him to get away. Awfully fierce—can’t get him out of my mind.” He lifted his glass to wet his lips, still eying Spock. When he lowered his glass, there was a smirk on his face. “I imagine he’s fantastic at love-play.”   
  
_I wouldn’t know._  Spock didn’t say it—if Kirk had experienced troubles before, an admission that he was, in fact, available would only cause further problems.   
  
“I’m sure he is quite busy at the moment,” Spock said instead as he turned, weaving around the counters, hoping the dismissal would be effective. One thing was for certain—Kirk could no longer be on kitchen duty, nor anywhere else Suvar had access to. The options were limited, and Spock was distracted by the thought, too distracted to be on his guard.   
  
Suvar appeared in front of him, having moved swiftly across the open kitchen, blocking Spock easily. He was several inches shorter, but stouter—stronger—and he smelled of drink.   
  
“Of course,” he said, voice soft and deceptively light, “it is not often that a slave refuses me, especially not a bedslave. My rank is quite a handy bargaining chip.”   
  
Spock’s brain stuttered—his rank, of course, as a military man.  _Strong and well-trained_ , his mind completed, the realization unpleasant.   
  
“I will speak with him.” Spock promised nothing, but he did try to move around him. Tried, and failed—Suvar caught his arm with a grip too tight, and Spock felt cold.   
  
“No need. I’ll just speak to you.” He released him, thankfully, but Spock could barely resist the urge to lay his hand over the crinkle of his shirt, certain grubby fingerprints remained.   
  
“You see, I’ve thought about it. If he refused  _me_ , he must be getting something else from his  _owner_ , something other than money or expensive gifts. And he is a bedslave.” He licked his lips again, and his eyes were dilated. “I wonder if you’re any good.”   
  
Spock swallowed but didn’t say anything. He didn’t think he could speak, nor could he move, as evidenced by the fact that he didn’t so much as flinch when Suvar pressed his fingertips to the front of his shirt. It was the drink, he knew—Suvar would never have bothered with him otherwise, not in his own house—but knowledge of the cause did not help. Spock knew what he was implying. Knew, and was…frightened. A novel experience.   
  
Just when it occurred to him that he should be planning a surer method of escape rather than standing petrified, however, there was a tremendous crack, and Suvar’s eyes rolled back into his head before he collapsed in a heap.   
  
Spock was stunned, or at least he was until Kirk popped out from where he’d been lurking behind the counter. Even with the threat clearly neutralized, he still held the wooden rolling pin in his hands like a club, and he did until Spock cleared his throat meaningfully.   
  
“Kirk. Aren’t you supposed to be working?” Such a foolish statement, but “thank you” and “what were you doing, hiding like that?” were both clearly out of the question. Vulcans didn’t thank slaves, although it had become apparent that this was a rule that probably should have been rectified. Kirk, however, didn’t appear to mind, simply shrugging and then propping his weapon against one shoulder.   
  
“Yes, I am. However, Mrs. S’Rang seemed to think I was needed back in here, urgently.” They both glanced down at where Suvar was lying very still, unconscious. Kirk smiled, the expression surprisingly nasty on his face—yet another different smile—but it faded quickly. “I think she was worried about you.”   
  
Spock nodded, and then he looked at Kirk curiously.  _And you? Were you worried about me?_  Spock’s first instinct upon seeing two Vulcans talking would not be to bludgeon one of them, after all, but humans were strange creatures.   
  
 “I see. She has my thanks, as do you.” It was much easier than Spock expected, but Kirk still looked at him in surprise for a moment before glancing back down.   
  
“Does he bother you a lot? If I’d known, I wouldn’t have lied about what happened a couple weeks ago.”   
  
Spock suspected this wasn’t true—Kirk didn’t seem the type to ask for help, even when the situation warranted it—but he did not say as much.   
  
“No. He was drunk—I believe his affinity for cocoa liquor is too great.”   
  
Kirk nodded along, looking thoughtful.   
  
“So, he just bothers you during this…celebration?”   
  
The careful neutrality of Kirk’s voice did not fool him; no doubt he found such rituals too decadent for a functioning society. In truth, Spock did as well, and he hurried to explain as he led Kirk from the kitchens and into the empty hallways. No witnesses—it made it possible to sneak back to Spock’s quarters, and they did so, moving quickly.   
  
“No. I am not a participant, and I rarely encounter other beings during Rumarie.” A thought occurred to him, one that he relayed easily. “If you wish, when the celebrations are on-going next year, you may remove yourself from them as well.”   
  
Kirk wore an expression of amusement, but it was different from his usual, almost as if he was humoring  _Spock_  in this matter. It remained on his face for several moments of silence before he responded.   
  
“Okay, sure. Next year. And what exactly am I going to do now? You won’t let me go back to the kitchens.”   
  
Spock nodded. He had known his suspicions were justified, but now, more than ever, he was not sure what to do.   
  
“I will think of something. For now, you may remain…here.” They had arrived at Spock’s office, and he unlocked it quickly, gesturing for Kirk to precede him. For a moment after the door was closed, Spock felt unease—after all, except for his oft-absent assistant and his stubborn brother, Spock allowed no one inside these rooms. They contained every piece of information on their household and much on their defenses; the knowledge was dangerous, and not something lightly shared.   
  
But then he looked at a Kirk who appeared disinterested at best, and he relaxed again. Kirk had no use for such information—Spock could already tell that he was a man of good character, and he seemed accepting of his role in all things. Besides, a slave did not have the connections necessary to benefit from such spying, or so he told himself.   
  
“So…this is your office?”   
  
Spock looked around, attempting to see it with the eyes of someone else. It was painstakingly organized—uncomfortably so, as Sybok had once said—but it was an organization that was not obvious. There were no labels, and the wall was lined with shelves, all filled to capacity. Aside from the two desks and their chairs, there was no other available seating, and it was without hesitation that Spock gestured Kirk to his assistant’s desk. He sat, perhaps too heavily, and Spock answered.   
  
“Yes, this is my office. The desk you are currently occupying belongs to Selek, my assistant.”   
  
Kirk looked down at the desk surface, no doubt taking in the presence of the dust and only the barest evidence of occupation.   
  
“Yeah? And where’s he?”   
  
“Participating in Rumarie, naturally. Before that, he was hunting in the T’Toran Mountains. Before that, he was exploring the northlands.”   
  
It occurred to Spock that he should be bitter—Kirk certainly looked like he would be annoyed in Spock’s place—but the facts were nothing he did not expect.   
  
“Why haven’t you gotten rid of him, exactly?”   
  
“There is no suitable replacement, and as long as he is officially my assistant, no one bothers me to find one. Also, I do not particularly need the help.” Spock didn’t say that he also found it less stifling to be by himself; he was beginning to doubt the truth of the statement, because curiously, he did not mind Kirk’s presence nearly as much.   
  
Kirk just snorted.   
  
“Sure you don’t.” His eyes flicked over the rest of the office, lingering on piles and stacks of discarded paper before he shook his head, seemingly weary. “Geesh, I don’t know how you find anything.”   
  
“Easily. Now, please be silent—I have much work to do.”   
  
Spock issued the command without much force, and it could have even been termed a request. Whatever the reality, Kirk complied without question, sitting in silence as Spock continued the work he had abandoned in favor of eating. Of course, Spock was aware of all of Kirk’s small movements—the shifting in his seat, the way he crossed and uncrossed his arms, the soft sighs of boredom—but they were somehow not bothersome. It made the office feel curiously warm, or perhaps that was just Spock; he had never had anyone besides Sybok willingly remain in his company for so long, and even if Kirk was only following orders, the companionship was still welcome.   
  
An hour had passed in silence before he felt Kirk suddenly appear behind him, and he started minutely, not enough to be noticeable. He wondered what Kirk wanted but didn’t ask; Spock found his proximity more appealing than his presence across the room, even with the addition of strange human scents.   
  
“I think you missed a line right there.”   
  
Kirk’s breath was warm and damp near his skin, and Spock almost didn’t hear him (an unforgiveable lapse) nor did he see that Kirk was pointing to his most recent note (worse.) Upon inspection, however, Spock saw that he was right—he must have been missing a report, because a single farm was not responsible for such a high yield. It had not occurred to him…but then something else did entirely.   
  
“You read Vulcan script? And you are familiar with arithmetic and logic? And…farming?” It was an odd skill set for a slave, much less one with Kirk’s earlier assigned role, and he saw Kirk make the same realization a second too late.   
  
Kirk rubbed sheepishly at the back of his neck but didn’t move away. Spock didn’t mind the closeness, as Kirk had clearly bathed recently and no offensive smells clung to him.   
  
“Well, yeah. I grew up on a farm, and as for the rest…well, you get bored sometimes.”   
  
Bored enough to learn standard Vulcan? Spock wanted to ask, but he rather thought that following that chain of questioning would lead nowhere. He could find out, of course—he was Vulcan, and so telepathic methods were at his disposal—but the situation was hardly urgent enough to warrant such actions.   
  
“I see.” It said everything and nothing, and Spock realized he should continue. “Do you have much experience with note-keeping?”   
  
Kirk shrugged, and this time he did lean back.   
  
“Some. Why?”   
  
The idea formed, clear and perfect, in Spock’s mind.   
  
“Because if you do not object, I believe I may have found a new assistant.”


	4. Chapter 4

Spock’s solution was effective, perfect even. The hardest part of the entire situation was relieving Selek of his much-shirked duties, but even this was not difficult—after all, it was a job that had been more for the benefit of Selek’s parents than Selek himself, and convincing them that their son was unsuitable for the position was a small matter; he doubted they disagreed, and he suspected Selek would be given many more responsibilities in his own home when Rumarie ended. As for Kirk, he fit the role perfectly—he was obedient, available, intelligent (much more so than Spock had initially given him credit for, to his regret), and he was pleasant company besides. Kirk, as it seemed, had a tendency to fill the silence with conversation—Spock had not realized, possibly because he had not yet been in a situation where Kirk was near, awake, energized, and not committing some act to warrant Spock’s scorn—but when Spock did not deter his words immediately, Kirk chattered about innumerable things. Most of them were irrelevant, subjects such as Kirk’s favorite color (brown) and the first girl he’d ever been romantically interested in (Andorian, named Kerala), but Spock listened all the same. When Kirk did occasionally ask him for details about himself, they were in the same level of irrelevance, but Spock found himself answering anyway (“blue” and “unimportant,” respectively.) What’s more, he put forth a deliberate effort to remember Kirk’s own answers, an effort that seemed ridiculous for something that held neither political nor tactical significance.   
  
It was as surprising as it was pleasant, and for the first time in his memory, Spock looked forward to the day. There was a slight hiccup—Suvar seemed to recall being struck over the head, but he wisely kept silent, perhaps remembering the cause as well—but overall, for the weeks that followed, his days and duties continued uninterrupted.   
  
Spock believed things would have continued to be the same indefinitely if it weren’t for a slight mistake on his part, the continued existence of shameful forgetfulness.   
  
Since the beginning of Kirk’s new role, Spock and Kirk had avoided discussing the fact that they still shared quarters. After all, there was no need; Spock began his day much earlier to compensate for duties that he did not need an assistant for, and they rarely crossed paths during their waking hours outside the office. Kirk, for his part, spent his off hours once again doing things that were distributed to servants normally—all while staying within sight, of course—such as laundry and basic maintenance in the wing. Spock accepted the help as it meant he didn’t have to trouble other servants for their time, and he did not think to change his habits. Namely, he did not think to hide his hidden  book somewhere else.   
  
House servants could not read and would not snoop, but Kirk could and did, as evidenced by his holding up the book one day when Spock returned from surveying the public routes on his family land.   
  
The slim brown volume was held gently in Kirk’s hands, and the white lettering winked at Spock, catching the afternoon sun. A pile of bedsheets on the floor made it apparent what Kirk had been doing before he was distracted, and Spock wondered if he could pass the presence of the book off as a casual interest. Unlikely—there would have been no need to hide it if this were the truth.   
  
“Spock? What’s this? I found it under your pillow.”   
  
Spock spared a moment to wonder when Kirk had dropped the “mister” from his name, to wonder when he had decided to allow that, and then he was deliberately moving, reaching out to grasp the leather-bound pages. Kirk released it instantly.   
  
“Nothing. A souvenir from a religious institute.” The statement was obviously false, as Spock took great care to replace the book behind another on his shelf. Kirk watched him silently, and Spock felt uneasy for a moment before he could brush the sensation away. Kirk had no reason to betray him.   
  
“Yeah? I didn’t know Vulcan had any widespread teachings on equality and stuff.”   
  
Spock was startled for an entirely different reason.   
  
“You read it?” Kirk had been here, alone, for less than three hours, and he had not only found the volume, but read and understood it in that time? Spock’s assessment of Kirk’s intelligence had once again proven to be less than accurate.   
  
“Yeah—sorry if it was personal or something, but I was curious. The logic stuff is a bit wacky, though—non-emotion?”   
  
 “It makes good sense for Vulcans. By nature, we are quite logical, but many of us have an unfortunate tendency to be ruled by our passions.”   
  
“Not everyone, though. I mean,  _you_  don’t have that problem.”   
  
Spock felt flattered although he really should not have; after all, Kirk had never seen him give in to anger or lust, but fear? Shame? He was more than susceptible to such emotions, and “passion” did not always run hot.   
  
Perhaps that was the reason for Spock’s response—a confirmation that Vulcans, by and large, were all the same.   
  
“No, but I am not as Vulcan as my peers.”   
  
Kirk narrowed his eyes, looking contemplative. Spock couldn’t help but think he had surprised him somehow.   
  
“What’s that supposed to mean?”   
  
Spock considered dismissing the entire conversation for a moment, considered and regretted the idea. After all, it was no secret—he was surprised Kirk had not heard already, as the lower classes loved such gossip.   
  
“I am surprised you have not heard by this point. It is a fairly popular conversation topic, or so I am told.” Gleefully, and often by Sybok—his brother was curious that way.   
  
Kirk shrugged again.   
  
“I don’t listen to gossip—idle chatter for idle minds, right?”   
  
“I see.” Spock wondered, briefly, who he was quoting. “The topic of which I’m speaking is that I am only half-Vulcan. My mother was an alien.”   
  
“An alien?”   
  
“Human.”   
  
Kirk looked startled, unnecessarily so.   
  
“What? No, that’s not right,” he blurted, and Spock opened his mouth to ask for an explanation when Kirk held up both hands and tried a smile. “Sorry, I’m just surprised Sybok didn’t say.”   
  
The familiarity was odd, and Spock corrected him automatically.   
  
“Lord Sybok.”   
  
“ _Lord_  Sybok.” Kirk didn’t seem bothered by the correction—he must have simply forgotten in light of a discovery that had startled him. “Where is she? Your mother?”   
  
“I do not know. She is no longer here, as it was determined that my father was becoming too attached to her. Weakness is unacceptable.”   
  
Spock felt like he was repeating the words spoken to him over the years, and perhaps he was. For the first time in a long time, however, he could feel how false and unnatural they felt in his mouth.   
  
“How’d they know he was attached to her? I mean, you lot are hardly the sort to pamper.”   
  
“He didn’t immediately execute her child—” There was a sputtering, coughing sound from Kirk that Spock did not acknowledge. “—nor did he sell it.”   
  
“ _It_ ? You mean  _you_ .” Kirk looked and sounded appalled—horrified, even. Spock didn’t understand.   
  
“I was an infant at the time. My concept of self was not yet developed.”   
  
“ _Jesus Christ._ ” The words meant little to Spock, but the tone—followed by the way Kirk buried his head in his hands—spoke volumes. “Why aren’t you a slave right now?”   
  
“My father really was quite fond of her. And…Sybok wished for a younger brother, something they had thought impossible. He was quite insistent on it, to the extent that he refused to let me out of his sight for years.” Spock didn’t say that by the time Sybok had stopped keeping him close, Spock had already found his purpose and secured Sarek’s affection as his child—it was unnecessary. “He was a precocious, perceptive child, or so I am told. I do not know what happened.” This was also not true: time had happened. People aged, and they changed—not even Sybok was immune.   
  
Spock felt a pang of nostalgia for how close they had been, once, but he dismissed it easily in favor of looking at Kirk. And then he truly looked.   
  
“You are distressed.” The idea of infanticide was one that appalled many species, so Spock was not surprised. He wondered if he should mention that it was very rarely practiced on Vulcan as well, but he did not get a chance, because Kirk’s head snapped up, and the sheer  _anger_  Spock saw there was alarming. Frightening. Curiously…stimulating.   
  
“You  _bet_  I’m distressed! They could have—they would have—they were going to  _kill you_ ? Jesus, no wonder this place sucks if they kill off every halfway decent Vulcan on the planet!”   
  
Kirk was upset on his behalf. No one had ever been upset in his defense, before, and although it was just as likely to be a common emotional response, Spock felt a strange ache at the thought. He wondered if that loyalty was unique to humans, and then he decided that it was unlikely; it was probably unique to  _Kirk._   
  
“You should have more respect. This is your home now, and it isn’t wise to openly disparage the ruling species.” The words were reflexive, but both he and Kirk knew he didn’t mean them as much as he should have. Perhaps he was lax in his discipline to allow Kirk to say those things, knowing that they were just short of warranting execution for a slave, but he truly did not think Kirk was so foolish to say them in front of anyone else.   
  
Kirk trusted him, at least with his life. It was an honor, one Spock didn’t know how to be grateful for. So, instead, he offered the only thing he could think of.   
  
“You may read that volume any time you wish. It is…I often read it to remind myself that things are ever changing.”   
  
Kirk smiled at him, and for the first time in weeks, Spock was struck by the expression. Had it always lit up his face like that?   
  
“Time is always changing, you mean. Nothing’s constant.”   
  
They were dangerous words, but Spock agreed. Couldn’t help it.   
  
“Yes.”   
  
It was the last time they spoke that night, but the silence was not unwelcome; in fact, it was almost as pleasant as conversations with Kirk often were.   
  
********   
  
For the entirety of the fifteen years Spock had spent as the records keeper for Sarek’s estate, Sarek had entered the records office only once. It had been unavoidable; Spock had made a foolish mistake that first year, one that had weakened their borders and made them susceptible to Romulan attack. Fortunately—because Spock was not a spy, despite the rumors that abounded for several months—the Romulans were not aware of this, and Sarek was able to correct the small miscalculation for the distribution of their forces without incident. By the time the Romulans did decide to launch their first attack, there wasn’t a hole to be found in the border, and it remained that way until they retreated six years later. Spock would have liked to have said that it was because he had learned from previous years, but the truth was, Sarek had been a general before he had been a landowner and lord of his household, and his instructions were very explicit. Spock simply obeyed.   
  
It was a sign of Sarek’s love for his children, Spock supposed, that he had never asked for anything except obedience, and that he had not punished Spock for something that could have had disastrous consequences. It was a sign of his power, however, that Sarek’s reproach following that incident was enough to keep Spock following his orders long after he had stopped giving them. Spock was used to obeying. Not surprisingly, he also was used to experiencing tension during crucial times of the year, expecting Sarek to appear and inform him that he had made another error, one that could ruin them.   
  
This year Spock had not been so aware, and so inevitably, this was the year Sarek decided to visit his office for only the second time. It was approximately two weeks before the burning season, a crucial period for farmers, and Spock assumed—naturally—that Sarek had come to make certain that Spock was giving the larger share of provisions to those wealthy men and women of their society. He assumed that Sarek had come to discuss their defenses, to discuss the fact that there was rebellion brewing outside their borders, the fact that their army was stretched over too great an area.   
  
His actual reason, as it turned out, made Spock far more nervous than he would have imagined. He could only be grateful that it was early enough in the morning for Kirk not to have arrived yet, as he doubted Sarek would edit his words, and they were not kind.   
  
“I have heard that Sybok gave you a slave, and that you have decided to make him your assistant.”   
  
The words were very cool, in the tone of someone commenting idly on the décor. Spock bowed his head immediately, and kept it that way.   
  
“Yes, Lord Sarek.”   
  
“In doing so, you have relieved the heir to our neighbor’s property of the first job he has managed to keep for over a year.”   
  
_A job that he did not do, and that he was not suited for._   
  
“Yes, Lord Sarek.”   
  
“And this slave of yours is human, and a bedslave.”   
  
Spock was used to remaining silent except for the occasional confirmation of his wrongdoings, but he could not let such a statement remain unchallenged. Sybok’s words echoed in his mind.   
  
_“People are not defined by their roles…”_   
  
“Lord Sarek, I do not think—”   
  
Sarek cut off his tentative protest easily.   
  
“Be silent, Spock.” Spock was cowed, as Sarek had meant for him to be, and Sarek continued. “This slave has no training, no reason for loyalty, nothing to recommend him except your word. We are dealing with sensitive information, information that could spell the end of our reign if it fell into the wrong hands.” The situation was laid out so neatly, and when Spock looked up, Sarek was watching him with boredom on his face. “Remove him from this position immediately.”   
  
Spock felt a frisson of surprise, of denial, and the refusal was out of his mouth before he realized it.   
  
“No.” Spock’s voice was much stronger than he would have anticipated, and Sarek raised one eyebrow, clearly surprised. Spock continued in a much more moderate tone when it became clear that his father would allow it. “My lord, he is intelligent, and familiar with the Vulcan language as well as mathematics. He grew up on a farm, and has experience with agricultural matters. He bears us no ill will.” Spock had not confirmed this last fact, but all the same, he was certain of it.   
  
Sarek said nothing for several moments, and Spock feared he had said too much. However, when Sarek did speak, his question was an unexpected one.   
  
“And Selek? What should I tell his parents, should they ask?”   
  
“He had performed no work for a period of at least seven months before I replaced him.” In fact, Spock doubted Selek would deny this very true accusation—it would serve him no good, as Spock certainly had enough witnesses.   
  
Sarek nodded slowly, and Spock waited for his refusal, his disappointment. It did not come.   
  
“Very well. I trust your judgment, Spock, and will allow this.” Spock opened his mouth to relay his gratitude, but Sarek cut him off with a sharp look. “However…it is important that you remember what happens when you become too  _fond_ of a slave. We cannot afford such weakness.”   
  
Spock bowed his head again.   
  
“I understand, Lord Sarek.” Never “father”—after all, such familiarity was a weakness in itself. Love and affection, as he had learned, were always weaknesses.   
  
It was strange how Spock had not thought to apply such a tenet to his own situation with Kirk, while Sarek obviously did. He didn’t have the opportunity to ask about his reasons, however, because Sarek bid his farewell immediately, no doubt to continue on to more important things. Spock did not mind.   
  
Sarek had put his faith in him, and Spock would make certain that it was not displaced.   
  
********   
  
Partially because he wondered and partially out of a defiant need to prove his own assertions, Spock watched Kirk carefully those next few days for any sign of betrayal, even those too small to matter. As of four days after his observation, the closest Spock could find to disloyalty to the household was the fact that Kirk occasionally made sarcastic comments under his breath, and even then, only around Spock. Kirk was quite well-behaved for a slave, even if slightly too talkative and rebellious in small ways. Sarek would not like him, certainly…but Kirk was not a threat to them or the Vulcan empire, and it was a great relief to Spock that he would not have to resort to other, more invasive and distasteful methods to prove it. It was a relief that all that Kirk was could be determined through a glance, or—in Spock’s case—periods of uninterrupted staring.   
  
Unfortunately, Kirk noticed.   
  
“Do I have something on my face?”   
  
Spock started, his eyes refocusing to see Kirk looking at him with an amused expression. Spock hadn’t realized that Kirk had fallen silent and now, faced with having been caught staring rather openly, Spock felt somewhat…embarrassed. Illogically, of course—he was the master of these rooms, so he could stare or not as he wished.   
  
He found himself attempting to explain regardless.   
  
“No. I was simply…distracted.”   
  
Kirk’s smile widened.   
  
“By my face?”   
  
“No.” Spock searched for another topic, and with a glance at Kirk’s face, he found one. “Have you always had those scars?”   
  
“Huh?”   
  
“Small divots on your cheeks and nose.” No one had skin that was perfectly smooth, but as his staring had proven, Kirk’s was more mottled in certain areas than others.   
  
He saw Kirk scratch at his face, appearing almost embarrassed.   
  
“Oh—yeah, that’s from acne. When I was…fifteen? No medication or treatment available.”   
  
Spock nodded.   
  
“I see. Should you require any medication, you may ask T’Vora.” Obviously, the marks still bothered him—Spock would be certain not to bring it up again.   
  
Kirk laughed lightly, the sound like froth on milk.   
  
“Thanks, but I haven’t needed any for years. It was kind of a teenage thing for me, you know?” Kirk glanced down at his hands on the surface of his desk, and his next question was noticeably casual. “Did you have anything like that?”   
  
Spock could not follow his chain of thought, because he had once again been distracted. This time, it was by Kirk’s hands—the nails were short, fingers and hands beautifully gold, but there was charming pink near the nail beds.   
  
“Like acne?”   
  
Kirk looked at him seriously, too seriously for such a simple question.   
  
“No. Things you did or had as a teenager that you don’t now.”   
  
Many things. Once upon a time, Spock had been a different person—he had looked for his mother, once, darted through the market and the fields in hopes of seeing her face, but that was before he had realized what was at stake. But not even Sybok knew that.   
  
“No. I was quite well behaved. Sybok was…less so, but that certainly hasn’t changed drastically since he became an adult.”   
  
Kirk looked away again, and his voice was soft. He picked at his hands—Spock noticed it for a nervous gesture, or perhaps just an excuse not to look up.   
  
“Did you always just sit and do what you were told? Just…let things happen?”   
  
“Yes. Is there something wrong with this?” To a Vulcan, there was not. But to Kirk…Kirk clearly expected more of him than his culture did. Expected action. For what, Spock wasn’t certain.   
  
But all the same, Spock felt a strange pain to see disappointment on Kirk’s face.   
  
“No. It’s pretty much what I expected of you. Of everyone.”   
  
“I do not understand.”   
  
Spock wanted to understand, wanted to erase the expression. However, he never got the chance, because the next moment, the window behind his desk cracked. The noise was enough that Spock wisely dove for the ground, and a quick glance to one side showed that Kirk had done the same.   
  
When Spock looked back at his window, he saw a neat hole where some sort of object had penetrated, fracturing the surrounding glass. Spock recognized the mark—it was Sybok’s latest project, something that was supposed to make hunting more “primitive.” He called them “bullets.”   
  
Spock thought they made a terrible racket, and that they were more trouble than they were worth. It was with a long-suffering sigh that he stood in the silence and grabbed a sheet of paper for a quick note.   
  
“I warned Sybok that shooting active ammunition so near to the inner wall would cause damages.” Spock said as he searched for the words, finally deciding that  _Cease and desist, my window needs replaced_  was explanation enough. He looked up and found Kirk standing nearby, watching him, just watching him. Spock folded the note in half and handed it to him. “Here—please take this to my brother. If he is not in his quarters, attach it to his door—I find a physical reminder is always better than simply calling him.”   
  
Kirk nodded and accepted the note, but there was a hesitancy to his motions that Spock could not explain.   
  
“Sure, Spock. Sure.”   
  
Spock watched him go, feeling as though he had missed something crucial, and then he deliberately focused on other things. His work, his now damaged window—it was easy enough to cover the hole with curtains, despite the unpleasantness of darkness at such a time of day—and, in the end, Kirk’s empty desk all received an equal share of his attention. Over an hour passed, and Spock found his eyes drifting more and more to the furniture in the opposite corner. Kirk was taking far longer than he’d anticipated. Surely he had not gone to look for Sybok? Surely he had not been…injured?   
  
Spock was standing, ready to pursue the matter, when Kirk walked back in, hurried to his desk, and sat without explanation.   
  
“Kirk?”   
  
Kirk started, perhaps as surprised as Spock was by the soft word, but he looked up. Spock was alarmed by how pale he appeared.   
  
“Kirk? Are you ill?” Did humans get sick so quickly? Did they show signs long before it was serious? Spock was not sure, but Kirk shook his head, and as before, Spock did not believe him.   
  
Spock didn’t realize he’d moved to Kirk’s side until he was reaching out to touch his face. Pale, and shaking—surely these were not signs of health?   
  
Kirk caught his hand before Spock’s fingers could instinctively find the meld points—he had not intended such an action, never without cause or permission—but he was released just as quickly. Not before Spock felt the barest flash of  _guilt_  and  _could’vebeenhurt_ , however, confusing as the thoughts may have been, and now Spock’s fingers itched for answers.   
  
Kirk stared at his palms, and pushed the words out quietly before Spock could ask for them.   
  
“Sorry. Just…bullets are dangerous, you know? You might have been shot.”   
  
Ah.   
  
“This is not your fault. As I explained, Sybok—”   
  
Kirk interrupted him, the words spilling out rapidly.   
  
“I found him. Took a while, but I did find him. He said he’d be more careful, and that he’d replace your window.” Spock watched Kirk rake a hand through his slightly shaggy hair, and then the words continued. “I’m starving. Are we allowed meal breaks or what?”   
  
Spock started—it was just past two hours after their lunch break.   
  
“Of course. I did not realize that you would be hungry at this time of day. Is this normal?” Spock felt a moment of guilt, wondering if he had been unintentionally starving his companion, but then Kirk appeared to change his mind.   
  
“No, actually. Ah—I think I’m just tired. Can we call it a break for resting purposes instead?”   
  
“Yes.” Spock looked at Kirk curiously—he was still pale. “You appear to be in shock—perhaps it would be best if you lied down.”   
  
“Sure. That’s a great idea. Come with me?” Spock shook his head reflexively, and all the humor left Kirk’s eyes, his expression deadpan. “No, really, Spock. I need to talk to you. Come with me?”   
  
The urgency was alarming, but not as alarming as Spock’s quick agreement. It appeared that, in this at least, Kirk had more power than Spock would have expected.   
  
“Very well.”   
  
They filed out of the office relatively quickly, but when Spock turned to lock the door behind them, Kirk stopped him with a hand on his arm. The guilt flared up again, but it was quickly replaced by determination.   
  
“Won’t take more than a few minutes, I promise.”   
  
Spock—his curiosity aroused—left the door unlocked.


	5. Chapter 5

Kirk was silent on the way back to their room, oddly silent. Spock wanted to ask—barring that, he wanted to touch, so that he may find answers that way. He had never been so mystified by Kirk’s actions before, but now, it was as if he were being powered by something not himself. His expressions passed in rapid fire—a smile, a frown, worry, resignation, neutrality—and Spock didn’t know what to think; were Kirk a toy, he would have said that he was malfunctioning. Misperforming. But Kirk was neither a toy nor a machine, and that made all of his actions seem…wrong, somehow.  
  
By the time they had reached the outer door of Spock’s quarters, Spock was ready to slam Kirk into a wall and  _demand_ answers. It was a curiously violent urge but one that was easily suppressed, and he even managed to keep himself from speaking until the doors had shut behind them.  
  
“Kirk, you are behaving strangely. What is this about?”  
  
Kirk, in response, reached up and ran his fingers through Spock’s hair. Considering Kirk’s tendency to avoid touch, it was as odd as everything else was, and then he mumbled out a quick “you have glass in your hair.” The emotions changed—the guilt disappeared, to be replaced with…reluctant affection.  
  
Spock raised an eyebrow as he stared at the small piece of glass clutched between Kirk’s fingers.  
  
“You brought me back here so that you could remove glass from my hair?”  
  
Kirk smiled, the expression lighthearted and strange as he flicked the glass away.  
  
“Is that strange to you? You’re not familiar with humans, right?”  
  
“Kirk.”  
  
Kirk’s expression changed to something resembling sheepishness, and Spock waited.  
  
“Sorry. I just didn’t want to stay in the office if they were going to be shooting nearby. Besides, there are other things we can do.”  
  
The last sentence had a curious tone to it, one Spock did not recognize, so logically, he ignored it.  
  
“If I’d known your motives, I would have brought my work with me.”  
  
Kirk huffed out a breath, either annoyance or laughter.  
  
“That’s not what I meant.” Spock was going to question him further, but then Kirk leaned forward, close enough for Spock to smell the strong soap servants used as well as the scent of ink and paper. Kirk’s eyes, close as they were, seemed to miss nothing, and his breath brushed over Spock’s chin. Spock swallowed reflexively. “You have beautiful eyes, you know—brown. I thought they were just one shade, too, but they’re not—three or four at least, depending. Very interesting.”  
  
Spock was uncertain how to respond to the statement, but the unlikely series of events of the past few moments meant that he was…amused, possibly more so than he’d been in months.  
  
“You brought me back here to remove glass from my hair and talk about my eyes.” Spock heard the deep rumble of his own voice, knew it sounded just slightly different from laughter, and Kirk’s eyes were suddenly bright, and his smile suddenly real as he leaned back.  
  
“Yeah. Yeah, I guess so.” He sounded amused, but for what reason, Spock was not certain.  
  
“You are a very strange species, you humans.”  
  
“You’d know.” Spock nearly stiffened, but he was held relaxed by the sudden presence of Kirk’s hands on his shoulders. “No, that’s not what I meant—I meant you actually pay attention to things. Differences. I’ll bet you’re a hard person to fool.”  
  
It was an enormous compliment, and far more important than any observation about his eyes. Spock wondered if Kirk realized.  
  
“Perhaps.”  
  
Kirk didn’t move away, not exactly. He moved, shifting from foot to foot, but Spock would be lying if he said the distance between them changed much at all, at least not until Kirk leaned in again. Leaned in, like a lover sharing a secret.  
  
“Then I should probably tell you…those other kinds of kissing? They’re all very pleasant. Sexual. Among other things.”  
  
The abrupt change of subject didn’t bother Spock, not really; after all, he had been speaking with Kirk for weeks.  
  
“I had surmised as much.” Not the pleasant aspect, but there must have been some reason humans practiced them outside of a strange cultural ritual. However, his mild thoughts on the matter did not prepare him for the fact that Kirk didn’t lean back.  
  
“…do you wanna give it a shot?”  
  
Kirk’s words surprised him, and Spock opened his mouth to say “no, certainly not.” Through some mystery, those were not the words he finally spoke.  
  
“Kirk, now is not the time. We have several hours of work left for the day.”  
  
Kirk continued to smile, perhaps because Spock’s voice was not as stern as he had intended.  
  
“Just a break. A short break. I promise it won’t ruin your schedule too badly.”  
  
Spock frowned. He could admit that he was not displeased with this sudden turn of events, but he was somewhat confused.  
  
“Your insistence is puzzling.” Given their previous experience, it was nearly as puzzling as Spock’s own lack of resistance in the matter. Kirk shrugged, and Spock felt it in his own muscles. He longed to feel Kirk’s emotions, to judge for himself, but they touched only where skin did not meet skin. Spock had the thought that taking Kirk up on his offer would rectify this.  
  
“Not really. I’ve been thinking about it for a while. About you, about Vulcans.”  
  
“I…see.” Actually, Spock was entirely unable to discern the meaning of that statement in anything but the vaguest sense. No matter.  
  
“So? Just one? I promise I don’t have garlic breath.”  
  
Spock sighed, and his own hands came up to rest on Kirk’s back, just beside his spine. He was very warm, his muscles tense, and Spock felt his heart rate increase beyond any explanation.  
  
“Very well. One.” The words were barely audible, contrary to Spock’s rigid reluctance, and Kirk smiled. Spock couldn’t help but think that his lips looked soft. They  _had_  been soft the last time they’d touched, but Spock had…ignored it. Now it was all he could focus on.  
  
“Condition, though—no mind reading.” Kirk shrugged again in response to the question Spock didn’t voice. “Should be a surprise.”  
  
Spock nodded slowly—an oddity, then, that Kirk wished to surprise him, nothing more or less. In any case, Spock did not tell him that his telepathy would only pick up surface emotions without deliberate effort; if Kirk wished to believe that Spock was extremely powerful in that sense, he would allow it.  
  
“Very well. Shall we begin?”  
  
Unlike the first meeting of their lips, Kirk did not wait for Spock to move. In fact, when Spock did so, Kirk held up a hand to halt his progress, looking amused.  
  
“This requires opening your mouth, okay?” Kirk demonstrated, his lips parting just slightly, and Spock shivered. A part of him was appalled at the idea of sharing breath and possibly even  _saliva_ , but a much larger part wondered, and so he did not halt the experiment, nor did he refuse the simple instruction. Instead, he repeated the motion until Kirk nodded his approval and leaned up and forward.  
  
A heartbeat before Kirk’s lips touched his, he closed his eyes, and Spock—assuming that this is the way things were done—copied the gesture.  
  
It was interesting, warm, and slow. Spock couldn’t help but feel that it was like a complicated greeting across languages that should not have been compatible, and his mind immediately supplied an equivalent Vulcan gesture, a touch of the fingers. Kirk breathed out soft breath against his cheekbone as he turned his lips, opening them, and the slick presence of a tongue against his lips changed the image in Spock’s mind to another. Not touching— _merging_ .  
  
It was pleasant and alarming, and Spock felt certain the second far outweighed the first, but he didn’t bite down or pull back. Instead, he duplicated Kirk’s motions, swiping the tip of his tongue against a row of even teeth and the mouth beyond.  
  
Kirk pulled back, smile already present, but not before Spock felt a series of emotions made of heat and longing.  
  
“French Kiss. Or a soul kiss, if you like that term better.”  
  
It was amazing how Kirk’s voice never faltered, despite the fact that Spock could clearly feel his pulse hammering through the touch of Kirk’s palms on his shoulders.  
  
“Interesting.” In more ways than the obvious, but Spock didn’t say that. Kirk’s fingers tightened, bunching cloth around his collar.  
  
“Another?”  
  
Spock nodded and parted his lips again, expecting more of the same, more slow, careful exploring. He didn’t get it, because Kirk surged forward without delicacy or hesitation, pulled Spock’s head down rather than reaching up to meet him. This time, his tongue was an invasion rather than an entry, a sudden presence that caused a similar response in Spock. This time, there were lips and tongue, but also teeth and hurried breaths and clutching, their hands moving to match the way their lips clung together.  
  
By the time they parted, Spock was certain he had pressed fingerprints into Kirk’s back, his reaction time was sluggish, and he felt that same feeling of heat reflected in his own body.  
  
“What…is that one called?”  
  
Kirk grinned, the expression all teeth and daring.  
  
“I have no idea.” His expression shifted but not much; it was mostly the eyes, and the way they flickered down Spock’s body, exploring a sight that must have been familiar by now but that somehow appeared to interest him. “Let’s try something you’re more familiar with, alright?”  
  
“Such as? Vulcans do not kiss.” And Spock did so desperately wish to continue kissing him—somehow it was  _imperative._  
  
Kirk just continued to smile, but this time, it was accompanied by the slow slide of hands from Spock’s shoulders to his hips, and then the trail continued to the plane of his stomach.  
  
“Maybe not on the mouth,” Kirk responded, the statement making little sense until a finger tugged at his belt. “May I?”  
  
The question was obvious, but Spock knew it was no use. He did not feel arousal, he never had…but then Kirk’s hand slid lower, encountering a very firm bulge, and Spock jolted.  
  
Apparently, he was wrong. He was aroused—there could be no other explanation. But then Spock had another realization; that feeling, that  _heat_  must’ve been lust. Desire. And Kirk felt it too.  
  
It was  _marvelous_ .  
  
“You may.” Spock didn’t know what he was agreeing to, and it didn’t matter. When Kirk pushed a hand at his shoulder, Spock obligingly backed up until his knees hit the bed.  
  
When Kirk began to strip, Spock started to panic, because the emotion— _lust_ —began to flare out of control. He had heard tales of what happened when Vulcans became prey to it, but he had not thought he was susceptible. He had not thought…but then Kirk’s hands were there, smoothing down his cloth-covered sides before tugging at his belt. Spock lifted his hips when Kirk tugged at the fabric, but he didn’t respond with anything other than a gasp when the cool air hit his exposed flesh.  
  
Kirk smiled, his fingers dancing over the exposed length that swelled before their eyes. Spock was amazed, both at the power Kirk wielded and at the image of the firm flesh he had never set eyes on before.  
  
“You’re being awfully  _cooperative_ . I’ve gotta say, it’s kind of a turn-on.”  
  
Kirk smiled up at him, lips stretching to accommodate a seductive grin. It was different than the smiles Spock had seen before, but no less pleasing.  
  
“Do you want me to take you in my mouth?”  
  
“Yes,” Spock whispered, mesmerized by the sight of that golden head bent over his pulsing length. The soft touch of rough hands was unbearable, too wanted, and Spock didn’t know how any Vulcan was able to function, knowing  _this_ could be waiting for them.  
  
Kirk’s tongue darted out, a pink sliver stroking against his overheated skin, and Spock sucked in his breath reflexively. Another cool swipe, and then Kirk pulled back, a surprised smile on his face.  
  
“Sweet,” he explained, and Spock didn’t understand, but it was not relevant when Kirk began to press soft, lingering kisses to burning flesh.  
  
“You taste like some sort of candy,” he murmured, sounding amused. “I could do this all day.”  
  
A sucking kiss had Spock gasping.  
  
“Please do not.”  
  
There was an amused chuckle, and then Kirk granted him mercy, placing his mouth over the first inches of his cock. The sensation of damp suction was not a relief, however, and Spock closed his eyes, resisting the urge to thrust, to _penetrate_ , to claim that mouth as he ached to claim his body. Kirk only sucked harder as his mouth slid lower, bobbing his head at an agonizingly slow speed while Spock writhed on the sheets. He imagined he looked a sight; head thrown back, fingers twisted in his bedclothes, half-dressed with his pants yanked down his thighs, but no matter how he told himself it was undignified, he couldn’t stop.  
  
He finally understood why men sought this, and why pleasure slaves were the subject of jealousy from their peers. There was a power in this that most slaves didn’t have, and Spock felt he should have been leery of this…but not him, and not Kirk. He had nothing that would benefit a slave, no influence, no wealth. Kirk was doing this of his own free will, and because he  _wanted_  to.  
  
Spock felt a surge under his skin like nothing he had ever felt before, as if there were some emotion building in his veins, and the pleasure in his body became almost too much…and then Kirk stopped, removing his mouth with one last gentle pull.  
  
“How do you want me?” The words were raspy and Kirk’s pupils were wide, nearly eclipsing that astonishing blue, and Spock wondered which he preferred: the evident lust, or the familiar color of the sky.  
  
“I don’t understand.”  
  
Kirk grinned sharply, looking more like a predator than Spock would have suspected possible with his friendly, attractive face and pink-hued skin.  
  
“Come on, you know. What does it for you? Positions you prefer, kinks you like or have always wanted to try, things you’d never ask your girlfriend for. Tell me.”  
  
The casualness with which Kirk spoke reminded Spock, suddenly, of who was in his bed. Kirk had done this before, possibly many times, and Spock felt his inexperience keenly.  
  
“I have not…I have  _never_ —” Spock closed his mouth abruptly, reminded painfully of his brother’s words those many weeks ago.  
  
 _Less than a man_ . He wondered if Kirk would think something similar, if he would laugh and leave him to his unfulfilled urges, but when Spock looked up, Kirk only looked…stunned.  
  
“You’ve never had sex? Never?”  
  
Spock shook his head mutely, anticipating disgust, not…guilt? Again?  
  
“Geez, I’m sorry,” Kirk explained when Spock simply looked at him. “I never would have gone so fast with someone who had never had sex. I just assumed that  _all_  Vulcans were—never mind.” Kirk stroked his hands along hairy thighs, and Spock’s breath quickened again, the awkwardness of the moment unable to deter a body that  _wanted_ , and  _now_ .  
  
“It is no matter,” he replied, voice as even as he could make it.  
  
“It actually is, but…well, is this okay?” Kirk gestured to Spock’s prone body, to the damp hardness now resting on his leg, and Spock understood.  
  
“Yes. Please, don’t stop.”  
  
“Hadn’t planned on it, but…well, let’s make this easy, alright? I’ll be right back.”  
  
Kirk stood and darted to the bathroom, ignoring his nudity. Spock wanted to call him back, but he was uncertain if his voice would be able to carry, or if his normally strong timbre would somehow snap like a string under stress.  
  
Kirk came back carrying a small bottle of what Spock recognized as generic lotion—he himself used a more expensive brand—and as he watched, Kirk coated his fingers and reached behind himself, arm bent awkwardly to account for his lack of reach. Spock wondered if he should offer to aid him, but Kirk had more experience, and he did not ask for assistance.  
  
By the time Kirk was finished, however, he was grunting and sweating, and Spock was…interested. Spock removed his shirt and finished removing his pants out of some instinct, but his eagerness faded somewhat when Kirk lay down on his stomach, spreading his legs. There was glistening between his cheeks, the result of the lotion, and the position was very vulnerable.  
  
“No waiting, no torture. If it’s your first time, lasting isn’t really the goal.” Kirk explained into the pillow in front of him, and when Spock reached out a hand to just barely brush the soft flesh above the whip scars on his back, Kirk’s legs spread wider, wide enough that Spock could see the tiny entrance of his body clenching and unclenching, wanting. “Just do what feels good to you.”  
  
The instructions were clear, and Spock shook his head. Realizing Kirk could not see him at such an angle, he repeated the protest out loud.  
  
“I cannot.” Kirk turned to look at him in surprise. “Such a position is…uneven.” It reminded Spock too much of the disgust on Kirk’s face that first time he had been pinned to this bed, and Spock did not want the reminder.  
  
Kirk laughed. Spock was startled at how loud the noise was, how abrupt and sharp, and when Kirk looked at him, Spock thought he saw disbelief in his eyes in addition to amusement.  
  
“Oh, God. Oh, Spock, sometimes…” Kirk let his words drift off, and then he pushed himself up on his hands and knees. “Here—this better?”  
  
It was not perfect, but such a position would mean that Spock was not pinning him, and that was the only purpose.  
  
“Yes.” It did more than just relieve the memory, however—it also allowed Spock a perfect position from which to touch and stroke the exposed hole, and because he was curious, he lingered. Kirk had been in a hurry, evident by the slickness on his legs, but when Spock pushed a single finger inside his body, it was welcomed without difficulty.  
  
Spock could not believe the heat of Kirk’s body, normally so much cooler than his own. It was indescribable, and the pressure…Spock raised himself to his knees, mind aflame, wanting to claim that body.  
  
At the last moment, he regained control, and hesitated. Kirk snapped back and grabbed his hand, and the emotions—lust, curiosity, eagerness—assaulted him and insisted he stop stalling.  
  
“Relax—just slide on home.”  
  
Spock’s hips canted forward slightly, just barely, and the tip of his cock pressed against the loosened hole. He pressed a little more, and the ring of muscle eased, allowing him to slide inside. Kirk was slick and tight, and he clenched against the presence; Spock responded instinctively by thrusting hard.  
  
The sensation changed sharply from pleasant to amazing, and Spock had to prevent himself from whimpering. Kirk had no such problems, and his pleasure was lifted into the air on a sigh.  
  
“Oh, that’s  _perfect_ .”  
  
 _Perfect_ . Spock was aware it was flattery, but he didn’t care. He continued to thrust until Kirk was moaning unashamedly, and then he was moving in a different way entirely, content to follow Kirk wherever he would take him.  
  
 ************  
  
If Spock had been forced to predict the changes in their relationship after his first sexual experience, he would have said that they would go back to the way it had been before. According to his secondhand experience—namely, by observing Sybok and his ilk—the desires of Vulcan men were fickle, and other species and sexes more so. Spock expected that the brief encounter with lust and sex, now completed, would be enough to send himself back to his previous state as a non-sexual being, as unpleasant a prospect as that seemed. He expected that Kirk, as someone with much sexual knowledge overall, would find Spock’s inexperience tiring, and would quickly move on to another. Spock would have allowed it, as sex was not and had never been the key in his and Kirk’s relations.  
  
But neither of Spock’s expectations came to be; if he was being strictly accurate, the exact  _opposite_ happened. Spock’s desires did not disappear—they increased, fanned by a brief taste and fueled by every encounter afterwards. And Kirk, judging by the emotions he gleaned besides lust, seemed to find his enthusiasm both amusing and extremely flattering. Not tiring. Not boring.  
  
They enjoyed each other often and without qualm and—much to Spock’s shame—usually at times and in locations that were inappropriate at least. After engaging in a sexual relationship with Kirk for a period of approximately three weeks, Spock had long since given up on consuming food during their lunch break, and he had also long since resigned himself to the fact that all of the servants knew of their liaison despite their silence on the matter. The head of the laundry—Mister K’Ton—asked Spock if he wished for his bedsheets to be changed more frequently. Mrs. S’Rang asked, concern in her voice, if he wanted her to start making him takeaway lunches to make up for how incredibly  _busy_  he had become. A servant Spock had never spoken to before (he believed her name was H’Khe’n, and that she had been working for their household for less than a month) was much less subtle than her peers, and asked him if he required proper lubricant.  
  
Spock found the entire thing vastly amusing. He imagined he would react differently in the event that someone such as Sybok confronted him about his current hobby, but as it stood, Spock believed the current benefits vastly outnumbered the negative attention from the servant class. Sex, as it happened, was relaxing, more so than the meditation he often attempted in secret. Spock had not realized how exhausting lust was, but a regular release of it made his mind sharper, his sleep deeper, and his emotional balance much easier to maintain. Alongside the physical, there was also something truly gratifying about pleasing another—he had not expected such a thing, but perhaps because he had been ignored often throughout his life, the idea that Kirk  _enjoyed_  his body and his company was….  
  
“Marvelous,” Spock finished, the word not entirely in his head. In truth, Spock wanted to press the word into Kirk’s skin; it truly fit him better than it fit a mere idea.  
  
Kirk laughed, and Spock responded by sucking hard on his collarbone. His laugh changed pitch— _excellent_ —and his hands scrambled for purchase on Spock’s bare shoulders. Spock, despite once finding the presence of another’s sweat distasteful, encouraged the action by shifting, forcing himself deeper inside Kirk’s body. It was a curious position they found themselves in—Kirk, sitting in his lap and rocking back and forth—but Spock found it very enjoyable; Kirk was heavy, and it reminded Spock that he was a strong man, and one who had chosen this willingly.  
  
Of course, Spock did not like the lack of control so much—all Kirk had to do was lift just barely and Spock was keening, hips wanting to thrust and muscles twitching. All Kirk had to do was kiss him, deep and slow, and Spock was lost…and Kirk knew that. Knew it, and exploited it deliciously almost always.  
  
Not this time. This time, Kirk held perfectly still in every way except for his twitching penis, red and hard between them. This time, Kirk kissed his ear and breathed heavily, providing neither instructions nor wishes.  
  
When he did speak, his words were…odd.  
  
“ _Jim_ .” The word was whispered in his ear, and Spock did not understand the expectant look on Kirk’s face, nor how his eyes seemed shuttered when he pulled back just barely. A quick probe for emotions showed that lust was the forerunner, but just behind it was…longing? Spock had not known the two were separate. He hesitated, not the least because the word meant little to him.  
  
“I am unsure—”  
  
Urgency. Expectancy. Kirk shifted, and Spock’s words ended on a gasp.  
  
“Come on, just say it.  _Jim_ .”  
  
“Gem?” Spock repeated, uncertainly, and Kirk shuddered. Spock felt wetness on his stomach—not so much to show that their activities were over, but enough that he took note.  
  
“Oh God,  _yes_ .”  
  
They began their movements again with a speed Spock would find alarming later. Kirk was not Vulcan…but for all the furious excitement and attempts to merge into his skin, he would not have known it.  
  
Spock asked about it, in the aftermath. After all, it was what lovers did, and Spock could find no other word for them.  
  
“Kirk? Do you enjoy jewelry?” Spock had used several minutes of their spent silence attempting to find the origin of the word in his vocabulary. It was easy enough—English, valuable stones. Spock could interpret it as nothing except a request for rewards, but Kirk appeared startled by the very idea.  
  
“Er…no? Not really, why?” Kirk snorted, answering his own question almost immediately. “Oh, I get it. Sorry, no. It’s just, ah, something that’s been bothering me for a while.”  
  
Spock rolled onto his stomach, ignoring the mess they had made on his recently-cleaned bedsheets (he had accepted K’Ton’s offer, as it happened) and he watched Kirk. It was a game of his, now—watching Kirk. Kirk usually interpreted it as a request for further activity, and Spock never corrected him, but more often, it was simply because Kirk was a mystery to him. He was, objectively speaking, quite a brilliant creature, and Spock enjoyed him.  
  
“Is there something I may assist with?”  
  
Kirk smiled a recently-introduced smile, one that he had described as “flirty.”  
  
“You already do.”  
  
Spock smiled faintly, but he was not deterred.  
  
“In other capacities.” He watched Kirk again, and saw his eyes shifting, as they so often did when they were recovering, or in the hours between work and sleep. “Do you experience boredom? I notice you looking out the windows often.” Spock had often wondered if he was cruel to contain Kirk, so active, inside these walls, as he himself chose to be; he had begun taking Kirk on field surveys as a result.  
  
Kirk merely shrugged, his smile fading to a faint presence.  
  
“Just like the stars, is all.” He gazed pointedly up at the ceiling, almost as if he could feel their glow that moment. “One day I’d like to do this—you and me—under them. This is close enough, though.”  
  
Spock frowned.  
  
“The stars?” A quick glance confirmed that they were indeed already out—it was later than he had expected when agreeing to an afternoon break, and he quickly rose from his prone position to search for his clothes. “I have forgotten the time—the planting reports are due next week.” Under normal circumstances, Spock would have had them completed days ago, but he had lost much time.  
  
The reason continued to smile at him.  
  
“They can wait until morning, right?”  
  
Spock supposed they could as they were nearly finished, but some part of him was uncomfortable with being away from the office so long. It was locked—they had never made that oversight again—but it was still his office, and he was not in it.  
  
“It is irresponsible.”  
  
Kirk held out his arms and moved the sheet that had covered him for decency’s sake up to that point.  
  
“I’ll make it worth your while.”  
  
“You already do,” Spock repeated Kirk’s own words back to him, and Kirk laughed, the sound rich and deep.  
  
Spock responded, quite logically, but attempting to swallow the noise of merriment, and by forgetting about work for the second time that day.  
  
********  
  
The realization that he was in love with Kirk came quite unexpectedly, but this was no doubt because romantic love was not something he was familiar enough with to identify immediately. Spock had become well-acquainted with lust…but it took him five weeks to identify the other sensations that filled him whenever he was close to Kirk, not in intercourse, but in quiet intimacy all the same.  
  
He wanted to kiss Kirk’s scars, and he had many of them, both on and off his face—scratches, whip marks, scrapes. They were interesting to him as they were not attractive in and of themselves, but somehow, they did not detract from how attractive Kirk was to him regardless. Spock wanted to sleep with him; odd, since they’d mutually agreed that sharing a bedspace was inconvenient for their differing sleep times. Spock wanted to hold him—not speaking, not kissing, not engaging in anything but the most cursory of touches, and he did not know why his body seemed to insist on such an act. Spock wanted to meld with him, and that was a sensation that he had truly  _never_  felt, not even with T’Pring, the woman he should have rightly wanted and whom he had not thought about in many weeks— _months_ . By themselves, each urge was strange…together, however, they formed a picture that both excited and terrified him.  
  
Spock was in love with Kirk. Not a Vulcan, but his human slave. His Kirk.  
  
It overjoyed him, at least as much as he could identify. Joy was something he was unfamiliar with as a rule, but  _this_ , this new sensation, could be nothing else. Spock no longer felt alone, not separate and secluded from his peers—he had Kirk. Spock no longer felt as though he was destined not to understand that emotions that drove men and women to die for affection—he had Kirk. Spock no longer felt like his voice went unheard, his thoughts unspoken, his dreams uncherished— _he had Kirk._  
  
And Kirk, for whatever purpose he deemed suitable, had him. He didn’t realize, but Spock was elated, and confession was easy. Natural.  
  
As their sexual relationship had been the catalyst for his realization, Spock felt it was only suitable that his confession was given in a similar situation. It was before a dinner that they would not be attending (Sybok was strangely absent, and Spock had no desire to waste time on food) and they were engaged in sexual congress in a laundry room. Spock was not entirely certain how they had come to choose a laundry room or how it happened to be deserted at the time, but no matter—he was sucking shapes into Kirk’s skin, the column of his throat, just the way he liked, and Kirk was panting.  
  
“Go on.  _Say it._ ”  
  
Spock knew what he meant—it had become routine for them, this word that never failed to make Kirk shudder—but he did not yield this time. When he released Kirk’s skin from between his lips, he spoke, but not of “gem.”  
  
“ _Ashayam._ ”  
  
Kirk stiffened, but not for the reasons Spock had become accustomed to. Instead of reciprocating in kind or at least politely ignoring the term, he pushed Spock hard on the shoulders, and Spock reluctantly removed himself to see Kirk staring at him with an expression that was either suspicious or concerned.  
  
“Doesn’t that mean ‘beloved’?”  
  
The tone which Kirk used as well as the English word were strange enough that Spock frowned.  
  
“Is that wrong?”  
  
Kirk looked at him, long and hard.  
  
“Is that what you meant? Love?”  
  
Spock wondered at the note of distaste in his voice at the final word, but it did not change the reality. Spock may have spoken too soon.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Kirk looked…alarmed, and when he grabbed Spock’s bare arms, he  _felt_  alarmed as well. It was a sickening mix of emotions that assaulted him: nervousness, surprise, guilt. Spock suspected Kirk had simply forgotten that he was a touch telepath for a moment, because the next, Kirk had released him to run his hands over his eyes.  
  
“Spock. I-I have to go.”  
  
Spock allowed it, because he had much to think on and he expected Kirk would return shortly. He was wrong—Kirk did not return until late that night, and he left much earlier than Spock anticipated the following morning as well. And while at work…it was worse, silence enduring despite Spock’s attempts, emotions charging the air, changing it to something unpleasant. This continued for days.  
  
Spock would have had to be blind not to notice how Kirk reacted after his confession: distant. It was not pleasant, but try as he might, Spock could think of nothing to rectify it. He could not even properly isolate the cause; obviously it was Spock’s endearment that was to blame, but Spock did not have enough experience to identify  _why_ . Kirk did not return his feelings, clearly—the idea was depressing, but Spock was not overly concerned. Kirk had more experience with these matters, and he was surely cautious in love after years of being bartered by others who had possibly claimed such feelings. Spock was certain that the return of his feelings would become apparent in time, and he could wait—he would not get rid of Kirk, so he supposed he had years.  
  
But these reassurances—that Spock was patient and Kirk was not obligated to reciprocate any time soon—seemed to only make it worse. Work became awkward, conversation became stilted—Kirk appeared determined to either ignore or forget, and Spock was concerned.  
  
“Kirk?”  
  
Kirk’s response was to shuffle some papers on his desk, the action very conspicuously blocking his face.  
  
“I don’t know about that farm; I think they might be skimming off the top. I mean, can you believe—”  
  
Spock sighed, and Kirk trailed off.  
  
“Kirk.”  
  
The papers lowered, and the expression Kirk shot him was annoyed and disbelieving both.  
  
“Spock, you don’t even know me.  _I_  don’t even know  _you_ .”  
  
“This is simple to fix.” There was a shocked silence; Kirk must have realized what he was proposing. A meld, so that they may  _know_  one another in a sense that was intimate but not carnal. “It is a common Vulcan practice, and safe for other species.”  
  
Kirk seemed to startle out of his silence, and he tapped a finger against his temple.  
  
“No telepathy, remember? And besides, that’s not the point.” Spock waited, and Kirk propped his elbows upon the desk. “I get that I was your first, and there’s something important about that. But you can’t  _honestly_  think that you won’t ever want anyone else? Because that’s what it means.”  
  
Spock knew that—he may not have been familiar with the sensation, but the meaning had always been clear. Spock, perhaps because he had inherited foolish human ideals, felt that in his own case, he would only ever love one person. The Vulcan half of him seemed to agree.  
  
“I have considered it, and I feel a…connection with you. Were you not opposed to telepathic contact, I am certain a bond would have already formed.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
Kirk didn’t appear to know what to say to that beyond a simple, soft confirmation, but Spock was willing to wait. He had time, and what’s more, he had goals.  
  
 _I will help you. You will not be a slave forever. Sybok is right—people are more than the roles they are assigned._  If nothing else, Kirk deserved to stand on equal footing with him, deserved to be seen as something more than just property. If Vulcans had conquered less and allied more, perhaps humans would have even been equal by default. It was a foolish situation, and one that Spock believed could be fixed over time.  
  
Before he could say as such, however, there was a sharp crack, a scream, and the sound of shattering glass. Spock scowled—Sybok had apparently ignored his warning, and was once again firing his strange weapons too near to their home. He turned to Kirk, intending to ask him to fetch his brother, and he was surprised to find Kirk standing close, his expression serious. He recovered quickly.  
  
“Kirk, please retrieve my brother before he injures someone. His games—”  
  
Kirk shook his head, and then he pressed his face against the glass window. Spock did not understand.  
  
“Oh, I don’t think that’s a game. Or target practice.”  
  
“Kirk?”  
  
Kirk looked back at him, and there was something in his eyes…sorrow, perhaps, or that ever-lingering guilt.  
  
“Spock. When they come here, don’t resist. Don’t struggle.”  
  
With those ominous instructions, Kirk darted to the door of their office. Spock made to rise, to follow him, and Kirk gestured him back down. The rarity of the gesture—Kirk, giving  _him_  orders?—was enough that Spock instinctively obeyed.  
  
Something was very wrong.  
  
“Kirk?”  
  
Kirk looked at him again, and although his face was smiling, it was not a happy expression.  
  
“Captain James T. Kirk, actually.”  
  
The door of the office opened and closed to the sound of more shots being fired, and Kirk disappeared into the hallway.  



	6. Chapter 6

The invasion was quick and efficient, obviously having been planned down to every last detail. Spock would have said he admired that sort of organization, but the truth was, he personally saw very little of it, as the House of Sarek was one of the first to be occupied by outside forces. Spock and the other members of his household from servants to peers of the realm were taken into custody in short order, lined up and filed out of the building by a variety of warriors of several species, all bearing strange weapons and scowls on their faces. Spock—seeing firsthand that any sort of rebellion would not be tolerated when a single Vulcan stepped out of line and was summarily dispatched—cooperated with their curt instructions, and then he saw even less of the invasion as his hands were tied behind his back and a vinyl sack was placed over his head.  
  
Even in complete blindness, however, Spock could tell when they left the planet—it was difficult to miss the dip of his stomach at the rise of a shuttlecraft, and it was impossible not to feel the cold of space. Clearly, they did not warrant excessive heating…and just as clearly, this treatment was to continue. Only two hours after the invasion had caught his notice, Spock found himself locked in a cell, hands still tied, head still covered, and surrounded by silence. He knew he was alone—he called out multiple times during those first hours—and he knew where no one was. Not Sybok or Sarek. Not Kuvon, or T’Vora, or Solk, or T’Pring. Not…Kirk.  
  
He stayed that way for three days, and was in the process of being grateful that Vulcans did not require sustenance quite as much as other species when there was the noticeable clack of a door being unlocked and opened, and he was jerked to his feet. He stumbled, his legs having long since stopped supporting him, and then he was dragged where necessary.  
  
When the sack was finally removed, he was blinded by bright light, and his hands were left tied for a moment more before a sharp bark of a command had them cut. Spock blinked, not entirely certain where he was besides a starship of some sort, and as he blinked the vision back into his eyes, he saw his surroundings in a series of white lines. White table, white chairs, white walls, white doors—very little else, and not another soul to be seen, his guards having left before he could discern them.  
  
And then the door opened, and admitted a figure Spock both recognized and didn’t, a familiar face in the uniform of an enemy.  
  
“Kirk,” he croaked out, surprised by the sound of his own voice. His throat had never been so dry before and it hurt to speak, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. Kirk was wearing a uniform, one Spock recognized as human military—it was gold and black, and there were stripes of rank on the sleeves. Captain Kirk.  
  
For the first time since Spock had met him, Kirk looked like he belonged, and the knowledge that this was Kirk’s place, that this was who he had been all along, made his stomach twist. Kirk, on the other hand, looked perfectly at peace with the situation. He barely even blinked in recognition.  
  
“Mister Spock.” The address was a blow to Spock’s chest, and it hurt more than the starvation or the raw scrapes on his wrists. “This is an informal interview, and no determination of guilt or responsibility is going to be made at this time. Please understand that any responses you give will be compared with other results, and all views will be taken into consideration. We want your cooperation. Do you have any questions?” The speech was clearly rehearsed, and just as clearly, the informal interview was likely to decide whether he lived or died. Spock knew he should have been more concerned about this, but he wasn’t.  
  
All he saw was Kirk’s uniform.  
  
“Kirk,” Spock tried again, and although his voice was soft by necessity, it hurt less than before. Or more—he wasn’t entirely certain why his throat ached. “What is happening? How did you come to join…the rebellion?” The rebellion that had been brewing. Spock had known, of course, that such a thing existed, but the last he had been informed, it had been small. Insignificant. A motley band of forces with very little power and only a small threat.  
  
He wondered when that had changed.  
  
“The Force of United Planets, you mean, and it’s not important.” Kirk waited, hands folded neatly on the table surface in front of him while he looked Spock up and down. “Anything else?”  
  
Spock swallowed, and asked a question that was more relevant than his first. It should have been his first, but he was not thinking as clearly as he normally was, a result of hunger and disbelief. Even after three days, he could not believe it.  
  
“Where is Sybok? My father?” He had thought of them, but not enough—he had thought of them very little in the past months, and he regretted it now, now that Kirk’s eyes shifted away for a moment before snapping back, a nervous gesture. If they were touching—if they’d ever touch again—Spock was certain he would feel guilt.  
  
“They’re fine and not injured. Interviews are still proceeding. Anything else?”  
  
Spock shook his head and shifted his arms to try and pull feeling back into his sore shoulders and numb fingers.  
  
“No.”  
  
Kirk sighed, the sound one of open relief, and the slim datapadd in front of him was pushed to the side.  
  
“Good. Well, now that the formalities are out of the way, do you want any water?”  
  
Spock’s throat still burned, but he shook his head.  
  
“No.”  
  
“Hungry?”  
  
“No.”  
  
Kirk looked at him in exasperation, and Spock looked away immediately. The expression was familiar—it held an edge of fondness to it that was normal for Kirk, or had been weeks ago. Spock wondered if it had always been a lie.  
  
“Spock, it doesn’t do any good to be stubborn about this.”  
  
“I am not being stubborn.” Even Spock could tell that his voice came out sounding exactly that: stubborn. He didn’t care; for some reason, all he wanted was to be back in quiet darkness, his mind still trying to convince him that Kirk had not betrayed him, that he had not been taken from his home, that his family was not missing. “Ask your questions.”  
  
Kirk didn’t, not immediately. Spock felt the weight of his gaze, but did not look up.  
  
“Alright. Tell us a little about your role in your household.”  
  
The question had the same tone as before, professional, distant. Even though Spock was well aware that Kirk was familiar with the answer, he supplied the information regardless.  
  
“I maintained the records of the estate for the House of Sarek. This includes everything from agricultural productions to distribution of labor to access to the treasury.”  
  
“And military involvement? We you in charge of distributing military forces? Planning raids?”  
  
Spock shook his head and stared down at his wrists. They were green and scabbed where the ropes had bit through the skin—he had never struggled, but they had been tight, cruelly so.  
  
“Raids and other military actions were determined by the war council. However, I did manage the private forces of the Sarek estate. They were most often used in defense.”  
  
Spock waited for Kirk’s next question, but all he heard was a cough and a shuffle of feet on the tile floor. When he looked up, he saw Kirk watching him with a carefully schooled expression.  
  
“Are you sure you’re not hungry?” There was concern in his voice—Spock had heard it before, once, when he’d had a minor cold. He remembered thinking that no one had ever been concerned about him besides Sybok, not openly, and it had made him…happy.  
  
“Stop,” Spock said softly, almost to himself. “I was also tasked with overseeing household maintenance where necessary, as well as approving medical aid for those outside of the immediate household.” Kirk would know this as well, as he was living proof of it.  
  
“Have you ever served in the military?”  
  
“No.” Spock regretted this now—perhaps if he had been military-minded, he would not have been so easily tricked. And he had thought Kirk merely wanted to surprise him; it was clear now that Kirk had been keeping him out of his head and away from his secrets. Just one secret…and this all could have been avoided.  
  
 _Fool_ .  
  
“Were you aware that Vulcan has been expanding its borders, invading countless other planets, sacking cities, and engaging in unreserved genocide?”  
  
The list of his culture’s crimes nauseated him. He had studied history before, knew them by heart…but he had never had them listed so succinctly before, nor had he been aware that such acts of atrocity were still being undertaken.  
  
“No.” Instinct forced him to be honest, more so than he would have preferred. “I was aware that we were engaged in war, but I was not privy to detailed accounts.”  
  
“War, huh? Yeah, I bet that’s what they tell you.” There was an edge to Kirk’s voice, painful and sharp, but it disappeared with his next words, replaced with the professional tone of before. “Your case will be reviewed. I wouldn’t worry about it—you’re not directly involved, so you’ll probably just be let go with a few restrictions. Your cooperation up to this point will be noted.”  
  
Spock swallowed against a thickness in his throat. Yes, he was very cooperative.  
  
“Thank you, Captain. May I return to my cell now?”  
  
“Not until you eat something.”  
  
Days ago, Kirk’s persistence would have amused him. Now, however, Spock found it…irritated him, and he was not often prone to irritation.  
  
“I have informed you that I am not hungry.”  
  
For the first time since they’d come together in this room, Kirk’s professional look disappeared, ruined by his slamming one hand into the table.  
  
“Dammit, Spock!” Spock glared at him in response. “You haven’t had food in days—don’t pretend, I know how these things work. Just accept the damn meal.”  
  
“I do not believe I would be able to digest it.”  
  
Kirk’s anger faded immediately, and Spock wanted it back.  
  
“Ah, hell. Are you sick? We have doctors—”  
  
“No, I am not, but I do not want your food.” He was certain, by this point, that the implication was enough, and Spock did not wish to fight about it any longer. He had seen the way Kirk’s eyes shifted before—he knew that he had left out something crucial. “Where is my brother?”  
  
Kirk ignored him.  
  
“I thought you were supposed to be logical; starving yourself out of some sort of rebellion isn’t logical.”  
  
“Captain. Where is Sybok?” Kirk didn’t answer, and Spock was worried, almost sick with it. Sybok would fight invasion—Sybok fought everything. “He is well?”  
  
“Yes. He’s fine. Better than fine, actually. He’s—God, I was hoping I wouldn’t have to tell you.”  
  
“Tell me what?” Kirk didn’t answer immediately, and the pieces fell together rapidly. It was a good thing he had not accepted Kirk’s offer of food—at this point, Spock felt certain he would not have been able to keep it down. “My brother gave you to me, and…he knew.”  
  
Kirk nodded, expression appropriately apologetic.  
  
“He planned it. I mean, you wouldn’t let him run loose in your office without supervision, and he had to get the defense information somehow, since the rebellion was partly his idea, has been for years. All the major households were the same, more or less. He just thought you needed a distraction.”  
  
“A distraction.” The memories went by rapidly—every time Kirk had pulled him away from the office, every excuse. Every time Kirk had delivered a message to Sybok or disappeared, and every time his attitude had changed without explanation. The answer was clear to him, folded in a single memory.  
  
 _Doesn’t that mean ‘beloved?’_  
  
 _Is that wrong?_  
  
“I am a fool.” A great, stupid fool; he had done just what he had always accused his peers of, forgetting responsibility in wake of  _feelings_ . He had betrayed his entire planet, all because he had believed he wasn’t alone any longer.  
  
In that moment, Spock hated Kirk more than he had ever hated anything in his life.  
  
“No, you’re not. A bit naïve, maybe, but not—”  
  
Spock interrupted. It was unwise to anger someone who had control over his life, but he didn’t care any longer.  
  
“You were a very good distraction. My brother chose well.” There was a sharp intake of breath from the opposite side of the table, and Spock felt vindicated. “May I return to my cell now?”  
  
“No.” Kirk could be stubborn too, and Spock had no control over him; perhaps he never had.  
  
He swallowed his pride.  
  
“Please.” Spock didn’t expect it to do any good, so he was surprised when Kirk wavered, and then when he stood.  
  
“Fine. Your case will be reviewed, and—and we’ll let you know, one way or another.” Kirk turned to go, but he paused before the door opened. “We won’t tie you up again—don’t do anything stupid.”  
  
Spock did not answer that he had already done so. At this point, he thought Kirk knew.  
  
********  
  
Spock was not so rebellious that he continued to refuse food on the principle of it; after all, a quick inspection of the meal they offered him (probably at Kirk’s insistence) showed it to be an unappetizing but perfectly safe barley blend, and he needed the nutrients. Kirk had said that his case would be reviewed, and it was quite telling that he had not said when this would happen or how long it would take. For all Spock could guess, the time spent in his small, bare cell had only just begun, and he was a practical man at his core.  
  
It was six days before he saw another soul although his bowl of barley mash was replenished regularly enough, and Spock spent that time thinking, just thinking. About Sybok, and how he had changed so much that he considered it reasonable to betray his entire culture, his brother, his heritage. About his father, and how likely it was that Sarek had suspected his eldest son of treachery while still on-planet—the answer was very likely, and Spock felt an ache when he wondered if Sarek, out of love, had done nothing to stop it. About Kirk, and how distasteful he must have found this entire ordeal—pretending to be a slave to gather information, never mind the activities that entailed. Spock thought a great deal about Kirk, probably more than he should have in light of this new distribution of power, and it was about the oddest things besides.  
  
Spock thought about his smiles, and he thought about how he might have changed things from the start. His anger eventually faded when he realized he didn’t want to—Kirk had introduced him to harsh reality, but it would have come regardless. Those few memories of love and affection (one-sided on both counts, as Spock now realized) were still cherished, even if he doubted he’d experience something similar again. At this point, he doubted he’d feel  _sunlight_ again. Sand. Wind. A food he could tolerate.  
  
And then, without warning or explanation, he was released. An Andorian guard—his guard, as he’d realized, as she’d also brought him his food, evidenced by the bowl of it at her side—unlocked his cell one day and calmly escorted him to the shuttle bay where he was neither blinded nor bound. Instead, he and six others whom he did not recognize were loaded into the craft and informed that they were going home as they were considered unthreatening at this moment in time, and that they would be contacted with further details on their situation. The shuttle ride was quiet, and it became obvious that they were the first to be released, even temporarily; the uncertainty tainted the air, and he knew they all felt fear when they saw the open stretch of desert approaching them, fear of the future.  
  
Spock was the only one in his household, and it was a vast holding; somehow, he had managed to be deemed “nonthreatening” before even the most minor of servants…or perhaps they had left to find work elsewhere. Spock did not doubt that he had overestimated the loyalty of others under his command, but he tried not to think too much on it, choosing instead to move through his home.  
  
 He had never heard it so quiet, and he entered his bedroom first. Given the condition of the rest of the house that he had determined with a glance—war-sacked and bare—he was not surprised to find that his furniture was gone, as were most of his belongings. Some things, such as his cheaper wall hangings, remained, but overall his rooms were now vast and empty, bare of even the cheap bed he had purchased for Kirk seven months ago. This was fine—except for the occasional memory of sex involving Kirk and the ridiculous thought of  _kissing lessons_ , his personal quarters held little significance to him.  
  
It was his office that was home, and it hurt more to see it ripped open, books and papers missing, desks gone. Not a single datapadd remained, and a quick examination of the remaining papers showed them to be useless things—scratch paper, reports proven false, denied requests. Everything useful and meaningful that Spock had acquired or created in the past fifteen years was no longer there.  
  
They had taken everything, and Spock was tired. With nothing else to do and doubting that a bed remained in the holding, he sat down carefully on the bare floor and shut his eyes.  
  
Sleep came much quicker than he’d expected.  
  
********  
  
It was footsteps that awoke him, footsteps and the thought that they should not have been so loud. The floors were covered by plush rugs and carpeting…ah, but they had taken the carpet, and Spock opened his eyes, remembering exactly what had happened. For a moment, however, he saw Kirk’s face staring at him, and he forgot. Just for a second.  
  
“Why are you sleeping on the floor? They would have provided you with a cot if you’d asked.”  
  
Spock was curious about Kirk’s use of the word ‘they’—he wanted to correct him.  _You_ . Kirk, after all, was a captain in this new empire; surely he was part of the ‘they’ that he mentioned, even if he didn’t acknowledge it.  
  
Spock didn’t say anything, however, simply rising to stand. His body ached—it had not been wise to sleep on hardwood floors despite having accustomed himself to the metal of his cell, and he shivered, realizing he still wore the same outfit. It was quite dirty by this point and Spock himself had not bathed in weeks…and Kirk was standing too close. Spock backed away reflexively, and he saw Kirk almost flinch, clearly misinterpreting the motive for the movement. Spock did not correct him.  
  
“I did not need one.”  
  
Kirk smiled.  
  
“Stubborn about that, too?” Spock opened his mouth to deny the very-true accusation, and Kirk just silenced him with a shake of his head. “No, don’t lie—and here I thought that between you and Sybok, you were the  _obedient_  one.”  
  
“I am.” There was a trickle of amusement squirming through him, and Spock was surprised. “Unfortunately, I seem to have forgotten that fact.”  
  
Kirk snorted.  
  
“Yeah. Between you and me, let me just say you weren’t that obedient to begin with.” Spock was prepared to ask what he meant when Kirk reached inside his jacket and pulled out a small rectangle. “Here. They were cleaning out this part of the house a few days ago, and I grabbed this for you.”  
  
Spock accepted it, and he recognized the familiar weight even before he saw the lettering:  _The Teachings of Surak._  
  
“Thank you.” He was surprised that Kirk had bothered. “Though I don’t suppose it matters anymore—were the monasteries destroyed?”  
  
“Huh? No, of course not—only the largest cities were targeted, places with important officials. We don’t have enough people to conquer an entire planet; fortunately, Vulcan’s armies were spread pretty thin.”  
  
“I see.” Spock could admit to reluctant admiration for them; not many would have chosen to fight against superior numbers, much less against a force as experienced with victory as the Vulcan armies. But then, not many had known a person like Kirk; Spock suspected the two facts were linked. “Did you require something?”  
  
Kirk winced, seemingly remembering his original purpose.  
  
“Yes. Sybok wants to talk to you.”  
  
His answer was immediate.  
  
“No.”  
  
“Spock, it’s not a request.”  
  
“I am aware.”  
  
“ _Spock_ .”  
  
Spock swallowed and looked down at the book in his hands, ashamed to say that for a moment, Kirk’s voice had almost made him smile. Distance was probably best, and so Spock backed up another step.  
  
“I would prefer it if you called me Mister Spock.”  
  
Kirk replied easily, seemingly not the least bit offended.  
  
“And I would prefer it if you called me ‘Jim.’ You’ve done so before.”  
  
The tradeoff was unacceptable and unwanted, and Spock conceded.  
  
“I would rather not, Captain.”  
  
Spock thought that was the end of it, thought that Kirk would accept such distance easily. After all, Spock meant little to him…or so he thought, but then Kirk reached out a hand to touch his arm, and his voice was soft. Earnest.  
  
“I was supposed to distract you, Spock. I didn’t want to—I thought they could just wait for me to have access to the information on my own, but I’m not the boss. I’m just one captain, and they didn’t want to wait.” Kirk’s hand shifted, and with it, the topic. “Guns are human territory, you know? Vulcans don’t know enough about them to think about how accurate they are, and anyone injured—or killed—by a bullet could have been passed off as just an accident.”  
  
Spock thought of the hole in his window, and how he had assumed it was an accident. Perhaps in this Kirk was correct—he wondered if it was Sybok who had given the warning, or if it was another member of the mysterious ‘they.’  
  
Kirk removed his hand, and Spock missed it, hated that he did.  
  
“They would have shot you, you know. In the head. What was I supposed to do?”  
  
 _Let them_ . The words were on the tip of his tongue.  _Let them, rather than force me to_ —no, that wasn’t quite right. Kirk hadn’t forced him to do anything; Spock had known the risks he was taking, what might happen if Kirk had failed to live up to his trust. He had known, and he had ignored them, because he had thought…but then, he had been a fool, and still was, apparently.  
  
“It doesn’t matter.”  
  
“It does. I should’ve taught you to play mahjong or something. I don’t think Sybok actually expected me to distract you with sex, and now look where we are.”  
  
Spock didn’t know what to say to that; for the first time, he wondered if Kirk was experiencing something similar to himself. Not exact—Kirk, after all, had not been betrayed immediately after a love confession—but perhaps…similar.  
  
“May I bathe before I see my brother?”  
  
Kirk smiled then, clearly relieved that he wouldn’t have to bring him to Sybok by force.  
  
“Yes, of course. I’ll find you some clothes or something.”  
  
Kirk left without another word, not even remaining to see which bath Spock would choose. Spock found it odd, but mostly irrelevant; he was too grateful to be able to cleanse himself of the stink of imprisonment to pay much attention, and out of a need to be as detached as possible, Spock cleansed himself quickly. He even shaved for reasons he did not understand—it was unlikely anyone cared how he appeared beyond his smell—but he wanted some bit of normalcy. Some something to help him forget.  
  
Looking in the mirror didn’t help, possibly because he’d lost a significant amount of weight. Not more than a dozen pounds, but then, he had had very little to spare to begin with, and now he appeared little more than a skeleton, an unhappy one.  
  
When he came out of himself and found Kirk staring, he said nothing and simply pulled the clothes from Kirk’s arms. They were not his clothes, but Spock barely noticed the coarse fabric and loose cut.  
  
“I told them to feed you,” is what Kirk said, rather than remarking on the clothes or his shaven face. Spock was grateful.  
  
“They did.”  
  
“You don’t look healthy, Spock.”  
  
Neither did Kirk—now that Spock was no longer quite so determined not to look at him, he saw lines of sleeplessness in his face, and his own clothes, a full captain’s uniform that must have been fitted to his body at one time, were baggy in areas. Spock wondered what his reason was, but did not ask. It was not his place to ask, not anymore.  
  
“Where is Sybok?” he said instead, and Kirk responded by leading him to, surprisingly, another room of the house rather than a shuttle. Once Spock adapted to the bare walls, he realized where they were—Sybok’s quarters.  
  
When Kirk opened the door for him and Spock went inside, he saw that Sybok’s rooms had not been stripped of any of their luxuries, and he was angry. Very, very angry. Sybok must have seen this, and he wisely didn’t dismiss the three guards that remained inside. Although he did tell Kirk to wait outside, it was clear that he was only doing that for Spock’s benefit, or possibly Kirk’s own; Spock wasn’t sure. The Vulcan that stood in front of him was not his brother, neither smiling nor frowning, affectionate nor angry. He was simply…nothing, and Spock wondered if he had ever truly known him at all.  
  
But Sybok did know  _him_ .  
  
“You’re never going to forgive me for this, are you?”  
  
Spock started; how could he not? Despite the fact that his face was one of a stranger, the voice was still Sybok, and so was the tone. It made it easier to be brave, because Spock could pretend that it was just another of their silly arguments.  
  
“My forgiveness is not important. You should be asking for Father’s instead.”  
  
Sybok raised one eyebrow, surprised at the bluntness of Spock’s attack, but he recovered quickly.  
  
“No, I shouldn’t. You know Sarek better than I do, Spock, and even I can tell that he’s a stubborn old man. His forgiveness isn’t an option.”  
  
Spock imagined this was true, but he did not confirm the thought; Sybok had made his own problems.  
  
“And yet you assume mine is?” Spock understood why—he had always followed his brother as a child, always cherished him even as an adult. The idea that Spock would not forgive him his decisions must have seemed laughable…but neither of them laughed. For the first time, Sybok’s expression shifted to one of sorrow.  
  
It slipped away quickly, shifting to one of determination.  
  
“No, but that was a risk I was willing to take. Life is all about risks, Spock.”  
  
“I thought life was about roles?” Spock prompted softly, and Sybok’s laugh was quick and startling.  
  
“No. Your life was. Our lives were. But don’t you see, Spock? It doesn’t have to be that way.”  
  
“I fail to see how it can be any other way, Sybok. I am your captive—”  
  
Sybok interrupted him with a hand on his arm.  
  
“You’re my  _brother_ . I didn’t want to hurt you if I could avoid it, and I really didn’t see any way to hurt you less than you are now. At least you’re alive.”  
  
The small comfort was especially small to Spock, and he shrugged Sybok’s familiar touch away.  
  
“You could have told me. You could have asked. You could have done your own spying, if it came to that.”  
  
The bitterness in his own voice surprised him, but Spock didn’t let it go. Couldn’t let it go. He understood the need for betrayal in Sybok’s goals, but shame? Heartbreak? For someone who had intended him no harm, he had done more damage than anyone else over the years, and Sybok must have realized that, because he rubbed a hand across his eyes.  
  
“You’re angry about Kirk, huh? I am sorry about that—I didn’t think you’d get attached to him. I just thought you’d treat him well, because he’s at least a hard-worker, and you respect hard-workers.”  
  
Spock was startled.  
  
“You’re sorry…about Kirk?” Sybok still didn’t understand. It wasn’t just Kirk, or just Sybok—it was the fact that Spock had trusted them both and they had failed him, refused to give him their trust in return. They believed him loyal to his culture, and he had been…but he did not know if that would have remained if the two people he had loved had asked him to change. He didn’t know, and an ache returned to sit in his chest, a lump of betrayal and disappointment. Spock looked down. “What do you want, Sybok?” Not forgiveness, clearly—it was impossible.  
  
“To lay out the rules—oh, don’t pretend you’re surprised. Spock, you already knew you’d be taking orders from me one day; why is this different?”  
  
He didn’t understand.  
  
“It’s different, Sybok.”  
  
Sybok just shook his head again and resumed his distance.  
  
“Like I said—you’ll never forgive me.” He didn’t wait for Spock’s response, simply steepling his fingers  and considering. “We don’t have a job lined up for you yet, but whatever it is, it’ll be similar. Administration, maybe, or paperwork for processing those who get released. In any case, it’ll be completely voluntary and pay well, so you can have your own life without the misplaced loyalties. Obviously you’ll be monitored until the last of the trials end—shouldn’t be more than a few years—but I don’t think you’ll try to start up a rebellion or anything.”  
  
The quick speech left Spock dazed, and he responded to the only noticeable question.  
  
“No, I won’t.”  
  
Sybok nodded quickly, seemingly relieved.  
  
“Glad to hear it. Now, Kirk will get you set up the rest of the way—a temporary home. You can’t stay here; we’ll be turning most of the bedrooms into court rooms for a while, but you can have your room back when we’re done.”  
  
The ache was different now, less—Spock wondered if it would fade entirely given enough time, if his forgiveness wasn’t in fact something that was possible, and that caused an entirely different ache in his side, near his heart.  
  
“That won’t be necessary.”  
  
“Alright, then, you can go.” The guards didn’t move, and Spock took that to mean he was allowed to leave under his own power. He stood. “And Spock?” Spock glanced back at his brother, and saw him smiling for the first time. It wasn’t an expression Spock normally saw on his face—this one was more serious, as though he knew the road ahead would be a difficult one but he had hope. “I’m glad you’re okay, and don’t be so down—freedom is never cheap, and it’s for the best. You’ll see.”  
  
Spock didn’t say goodbye; instead, he left the book that he still held close to his body on the table in front of the door, a reminder to either him or his brother, he was uncertain. From there he simply slipped into the hallway and closed the door softly behind him, taking one deep, calming breath. Kirk was waiting for him, leaning against one wall, and when Spock looked at him, he immediately held up both hands.  
  
“I’m not going to ask—none of my business. But Sybok did tell me to find you somewhere to stay and look into jobs you’re suited for, so that’s what I’m going to do. Follow me.”  
  
Spock did, and as they walked, Kirk talked. His voice was deliberately cheerful, and it was familiar, like their first conversation. This time, however, the questions were not irrelevant.  
  
“Now, what was your favorite part of your job? The numbers? The people?”  
  
Spock looked at him out of the corner of his eyes, and sighed, loudly.  
  
“The solitude.”  
  
Kirk grinned openly.  
  
“O-K. And what about life skills? I mean, would it be better if you were in a community or can you survive on your own?”  
  
That was a question Spock truly didn’t know the answer to; how would he survive? He had never functioned without servants, even if his needs were few compared to his peers. How would he find food? Clean his residence? His clothes? The worry was too big for him, and he shook his head.  
  
“It doesn’t matter.” He would manage. Somehow.  
  
Kirk looked exasperated.  
  
“Come on, Spock, work with me here.”  
  
They had argued before, even before this. Perhaps it was the familiarity of the situation that made Kirk reach out a hand to touch Spock’s lightly, an attempt to pull his attention outwards from his mind. It had always worked before, but this time, Spock was too distracted by the emotions that flooded him from the contact, his defenses weakened.  
  
Affection. Slight annoyance. Concern. Lust.  
  
And longing—but that wasn’t from Kirk, it was from Spock. Such longing that was sudden and deep, and Spock clutched at his fingers reflexively, successfully pulling them out of the conversation. Kirk looked startled, but Spock didn’t care; he wanted what they’d  _had_ , not what they were now. Even if none of it had been real.  
  
“I am obedient,” Spock began quietly. “If you ask me to cooperate, I will do so. And…” Here he had to pause to take a breath, because he didn’t know the rules, didn’t know if what he was about to say was cruel or honest or both. “…if you ask me to come to your bed, I will do that as well.”  
  
Kirk jerked his hand away.  
  
“Oh my  _GOD._ ” Spock watched, fascinated and still aching, as Kirk plunged his hands through his hair, disheveling it far beyond usual. “I never meant for you to see that. I am so, so sorry.” Kirk took a deep breath, and Spock waited. “I can’t do this. He can’t expect me to do this.”  
  
“This?”  
  
Kirk looked at him with serious eyes, his expression demanding obedience, commanding authority. Spock listened.  
  
“I never wanted to be your slave, Spock, and I sure as hell don’t want you to be  _mine_ .” Kirk turned abruptly, and their casual walk became something else, something more purposeful. “Follow me—we’re going.” At Spock’s look, he explained quickly but not thoroughly. “Off-planet. There’s a trading post not far from our ship.”  
  
Spock followed him in silence, watching. It was like a game again, but this time, there was no small mystery—it was his future that was held in the controlled expression, and Kirk said nothing, not on the shuttle ride back, not on the ship, not on the shuttle that took them hours away from it all. Spock didn’t ask; he felt that if he did, somehow, the entire trip would be wasted.  
  
It wasn’t until they were standing on the cold metal of a trading post that Kirk looked at him again, and when he did, he held out his hands. Spock thought…but then he looked again, and saw that they were filled with Andorian currency, the most common money for space travelers.  
  
“Here. It’s all the money I have to spare—I’m sorry it isn’t more.”  
  
Spock accepted it, careful not to touch Kirk’s bare skin, and his voice was soft when he asked, “Kirk, what is this all about?”  
  
Kirk shook his head, refusing to explain, and then he did anyway.  
  
“I’m not going to help Sybok keep you a prisoner in your own home. I know you, and I know you’re not going to cause trouble—”  
  
“Do you know me?” There was a memory in Spock’s mind, of rejection and hope. “I was under the impression that you did not know me, and I did not know you.” Both of these facts were true, but somehow, Spock wondered if that wasn’t enough.  
  
“I know you enough.” Kirk smiled. “Now please, Spock—run away.”  
  
Spock’s hands closed around the soft coins in his palms, and he swallowed, hard.  
  
“You’re letting me escape.” Just like that. So easily.  
  
Kirk looked at him like he was foolish, or like his confusion was endearing. It was a look he had given him before, and for some reason, seeing him in his Captain’s uniform no longer looked wrong.  _This_  was Kirk, as he had always been meant to be.  
  
And he was risking it all, for Spock.  
  
“No, I’m letting you go. Willingly. Knowingly.”  
  
“You will be punished for this.”  
  
Kirk looked unbothered by the prospect, looked brave. His life had already been difficult, and clearly, Sybok was no threat. Spock admired him.  
  
“Maybe, but hopefully you’ll be long gone by then.”  
  
Spock wanted to refuse. Would it have been so bad, he wondered, to give in? To be ruled? His mind said “yes.”  
  
Perhaps he wasn’t as obedient as he had always believed. Perhaps he was  _more_ .  
  
“Yes.” Spock swallowed, and turned around, ready to walk away. “Thank you…Jim.”  
  
He didn’t reply. By the time Spock thought to look back, Jim and the shuttle were already gone.  



	7. Epilogue

Spock found his place; not easily, but eventually. It was difficult being Vulcan in a universe that had not forgiven them for their violent, war-mongering ways, but fortunately for Spock, his time spent in that holding cell meant that he had become lean enough to pass for a sharp-angled Romulan with little effort. Combined with his relative command over the language—rough but adequate, the result of overseeing trade for many years—he was even eventually able to find a job that paid well-enough for him to live. It was curious, but living expenses had never been a concern of his; this too had changed, because life and freedom, both of which were more precious to him than he had realized, were expensive. Not so much that he was unable to afford them, but enough that he appreciated them, although not at first.   
  
It was hard, adapting to life in space. It took Spock only minutes after Jim had left him to realize that he didn’t want to settle on another planet, didn’t want to farm or hunt or join the military; in light of the state of the universe, this left few options, and so he found himself taking a shuttle ride to another station, making his home somewhere on the floating mass just outside the Romulan border. At first, the reality of space life startled him for many reasons, and there were many changes, but he adapted quicker than he’d expected. He was surprised he’d adapted at all, but as it happened, perhaps he was more human than he’d expected.   
  
He had never met a prostitute before although soon enough he knew four well enough to be concerned for their welfare. He had never been more than slightly aware of the underground drug rings although he quickly became uncomfortably familiar with the fact that they “owned” a fair portion of unclaimed space. He had never had to beg for work, but by some miracle, the job he found was neither distasteful nor morally questionable: he became an accountant for a small hotel, one of the cleaner ones in the area, he was pleased to note. Paper and ink and calculations still, but this time, it was different—mere numbers. There were few major decisions involved in being the accountant of such a small organization, and Spock could admit that he was relieved by the change from his previous position. Most people would have found the constant powerlessness stifling, but Spock found it fitting—he had years to prove that his choices were not always the best.   
  
He had a year behind him already to show that his life was better without responsibility over the lives of others, twelve months of perfect  _freedom_  to show that his destiny was not as he had always thought it would be.   
  
“Hey, Romulan!” The address had long since stopped making him flinch, but it still startled him from his work.   
  
“Yes, S’Ran?” He didn’t look up; it could only be the hotel’s manager. She was the only one who still referred to him by his claimed species rather than his alias of Chavek, perhaps suspecting his true origins. He doubted she cared, however, outside of reminding him of his position—Andorians were like that. “Is there something you require?”   
  
S’Ran replied by sliding a datapadd in front of his eyes.   
  
“Your hero made the news, again.”   
  
Spock’s eyes flickered to the image in front of him, watching the scrolling words. He saw Jim’s name—it made him smile, almost as much as S’Ran’s choice of words.   
  
“My hero?”   
  
“Don’t pretend you don’t follow his exploits. Just thought I’d let you know, anyway—the United Planets just allied with the Romulans. There’s supposed to be a big celebration soon. I thought you’d be interested, since you seem to dive at any news that comes through the media.”   
  
It didn’t surprise Spock that she’d noticed his tendency to scramble for any bit of news revolving around the reformation of Vulcan and the changes therein. He was slightly less comfortable with the fact that she had apparently noticed that his eyes always lingered on Jim for reasons Spock had long since acknowledged if not broadcasted. He supposed it was not a surprise that she read the obsession—the longing, the poignant affection—as hero worship.   
  
After all, nobody knew that Chavek of Romulus and Captain Kirk had ever met.   
  
“Fascinating.” He meant her assumption more than the news itself, but he still carefully read the short bulletin—Jim had been the front runner on the negotiations, it seemed, and his success was to be rewarded with the assignment of a new ship.   
  
Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw S’Ran frown, antenna dipping into slim arches.   
  
“You won’t go? I thought you’d jump at the chance to go home.” She paused, her lips pursing. “You need to get out more, you know.”   
  
Spock pushed the datapadd away and returned to his calculations, unwilling to remember having a conversation so similar with someone else.   
  
“I have not been allowed home for some time, S’Ran.” He would not pretend that he didn’t miss Vulcan every single day, but nor would he try to convince himself that returning was an option. Jim had let him go; Spock would be a fool to refuse, even if he sometimes wondered about all he had left. If Sybok regretted it. If Sarek lived. If Jim…missed him.   
  
“Hmmm.” Her expression shifted, became calculating. “Well, then would you at least consider taking Piysel for a bit of a lie-in? Her pining is making me nauseous.”   
  
Piysel was one of the women who worked in the laundry room, and she was perfectly friendly, perfectly attractive, perfectly available…just not perfect for him. He had yet to convince her of this fact, however.   
  
“I am not interested in a relationship, S’Ran.” Not with her or either of the other two people who had offered once his stay here had become permanent. Once again, Spock found himself utterly uninterested in sex or romance. He suspected that it was because none of those interested were a blue-eyed blond, or rather, a certain blue-eyed blond that still held his heart.   
  
“You’ve been saying that for nine months.”   
  
“I live in hope that people will stop asking.”   
  
She snickered.   
  
“Well, don’t let it be said that you’re not an  _interesting_  Romulan, at least. I’d watch that, if I were you.” She made to leave, but paused with her hand on the door frame. “Oh, and we have a guest coming in a few hours. Reserved the special room, so make sure that the cleaning crew gets there.”   
  
Spock was amused at the duties she shirked so easily, but he made a note regardless.   
  
“And where are you going?”   
  
“I’m going to the celebration, obviously.” She smiled at him, the expression too innocent. “Don’t stay up too late.” On that enigmatic statement, she darted out the door, and Spock immediately turned back to his work.   
  
********   
  
He should have realized exactly what she’d meant. S’Ran was ever manipulative, and convinced that she knew better than most—of course she would attempt to  _help_  him. Spock should have protested the instant she had started to talk about relationships and all they entailed; he should have protested more when she’d brought up Spock’s  _hero worship._   
  
But there it was, an irrefutable reservation for the best room under the name of United Planets—James T. Kirk, laid out in simple black. Spock couldn’t cancel it without raising questions (S’Ran had given him the room at a discounted rate, it appeared, and Spock appreciated her sacrifice) but he had fortunately seen the details long before Jim was to arrive. It was easy enough to avoid him; Spock was not a formal employee at the hotel, and it was not his duty to attend to guests, even official ones. He passed the check-in procedures to Xazabet, the cleaning to Piysel’s direction, the matters of entertainment to J’Ja (of which Jim refused all offers, and Spock was understandably relieved. “Entertainment” was not the word Spock would have chosen for the activities of questionable legality that J’Ja was often a host to.) It was easy to avoid Jim completely for his one night of well-deserved rest, his one night of distance from his work, and Spock could have hidden in his much-smaller office, no one the wiser. S’Ran would have called him a coward for not attempting to meet his  _idol_ , but she too would have suspected nothing.   
  
But as easy as it would have been, Spock found himself not doing it anyway. There were many things the news did not reveal, questions he wanted to ask and about things that were not what a Vulcan should have been interested in. He wanted to know if Jim was doing well, if he was healthy, if he was happy. He wanted to know if he was excited about the ship he would receive, if he had dreams he could relate. After a year apart almost to the day, Spock finally felt that he could ask. That he could swallow his pride and his distrust and remember that, once upon a time, wise or not, he had been in love. In truth, he still was.   
  
Before Spock could lose his nerve, he raised a hand and knocked, the familiar door seeming an insurmountable obstacle between what he wanted and where he was.   
  
“If you’re the entertainment, I told that Kellerian that I don’t need any,” Jim shouted from beyond, and Spock felt an ache at the familiar voice as it edged closer and closer to the door. He shifted, adjusting his clothes with one hand, hoping the blue did not look odd on him. “I’ll pay you for your time, but—” The door opened, and Jim’s words were cut off with a gasp, exactly as soon as their eyes met.   
  
Spock inclined his head, feeling awkward.   
  
“Jim.”   
  
“ _Spock_ . What are you…” his voice trailed off, and Spock saw exactly where his thoughts were headed. He hurried to explain.   
  
“I am not a prostitute, Jim—I am the accountant in this hotel.” Jim nodded, but Spock didn’t miss the way his fingers flexed on the wooden door. He hesitated. “May I come in?”   
  
Jim stepped aside without a word to let Spock pass, and Spock was prepared to excuse himself and his actions when Jim, seeming to come out of his shock, smiled widely.   
  
“Spock. I can’t believe it! Of everyone I’d expected to run into here, to think that you—” He stopped speaking, and his eyes narrowed in thought. “Wait. That Andorian woman who called me earlier, offering me this room for a break after the negotiations were finished…”   
  
Spock nodded, and glanced down at his feet. He did not know how S’Ran had gotten Jim’s number, and frankly, he did not want to ask.   
  
“S’Ran. She believes I have a…a crush on you.”   
  
Jim snorted.   
  
“Yeah?” Spock glanced up at the odd tone, the slight annoyance combining with something that sounded like relief. “Your girlfriend probably isn’t too happy with you.”   
  
Spock frowned slightly.   
  
“You assume that I am in a relationship with alarming frequency.” Jim didn’t answer immediately, and Spock’s voice softened. “And you, Jim? I cannot imagine that a celebrated starship captain has been alone for an entire year. The media thinks highly of you.” And with it a great number of impressionable men and women, he knew. But Jim waved the fact away as if it was nothing.   
  
“Yeah—bunch of vultures. I tell them there’s no story and there’s no story, but oh well.” He smirked, looking both wicked and fond. “Probably a good thing they never found out about  _you_ , huh?”   
  
Spock agreed.   
  
“Perhaps, but then, they most likely would have understood your duty in the matter.”   
  
“That’s not really what I meant.”   
  
Jim looked at him like he was being deliberately obtuse, but Spock wasn’t. He understood—it had taken him months to separate what his anger and feeling of betrayal told him about reality, but now, he understood.   
  
 “I am aware.” Jim looked surprised, and Spock shrugged. “You held…great affection for me at some point. I realize this now.”   
  
“Do you?” Jim’s voice was soft, and Spock couldn’t help but believe he was missing something.   
  
“Yes. I also realize that change was inevitable and, in the case of Vulcan, for the best.” It went without saying that he would have preferred a slightly less traumatic way of initiating it, but even his great mind could come up with no viable alternative. Instead of focusing on that, however, he focused on Jim. “You appear well, Jim.” He had gained back the weight he had lost during Spock’s imprisonment. He was also older—a year made that sort of difference to humans—but Jim carried the few extra lines with dignity.   
  
Jim returned the examination without hesitation.   
  
“You too. You don’t look happy, but…calm. You look at peace.”   
  
Spock supposed the word was as good as any; his conflicts were fewer now, his personal morals untroubled. If he thought about it, he supposed he would not find his admirers a surprise; people were much more attractive when they were confident and aware. However, peace was not everything, and Spock could admit to longing still.   
  
“I find I sometimes miss kisses, Jim.” The words were easy and honest, and the implication was loud:  _I miss kisses with you_ .   
  
Jim smiled.   
  
“Me, too.” He sounded sad, as if he thought that the statement was simply a casual remark, rather than the wish it was. Spock reached out a hand even though Jim stood far away, and he swallowed, the motion loud in the silence.   
  
“ _Jim_ .”   
  
Jim reached back for his hand, and they met.   
  
“Oh, hell.” The words were soft, but then Spock tugged and Jim went willingly and they were kissing everywhere. Jim lingered over his ears; Spock pressed butterfly kisses to his throat, and Jim panted, his fingers scraping through Spock’s hair. “I wanted you to have your own life, you know,” he mumbled, in between hurried presses of his lips. “I didn’t want to drag you back into this whole mess.”   
  
Spock hummed and nibbled on Jim’s jaw, smelling clean laundry and gentle body soap.   
  
“It is my life, Jim, and I make my own choices.”   
  
Jim laughed, the sound half-breathless.   
  
“You do, don’t you?” Hands came up to cradle Spock’s head, and when Spock met Jim’s eyes, he saw they were happy, alight with it. “I’m so glad.”   
  
Their lips met for the first time in months, and after that, it was a blur. The sex wasn’t important—the sex had never been important, although clearly his body did not agree—but it was not just a motion, either, not an affirmation or a meeting. It was a merging, both of body and soul, and—in one heartbreaking instant where Jim raised his hands to his meld points—of mind as well.   
  
Spock saw everything. How Jim had wanted him almost from the beginning. How Jim had liked him against his wishes for Spock’s concern, Spock’s worry, Spock’s forgiveness. How the first time they’d met again after the invasion, Jim had loved him for refusing to leave without his brother. Jim had  _loved_  him. Jim  _still_  loved him.   
  
It was all Spock had ever wanted in a moment, and he was not ashamed to say that having Jim in his mind and his arms and his heart meant that he was unable to last beyond the barest of instances, one thrust, two. Jim followed quickly, both of their clothes asunder and a mess, and they collapsed on the floor—Spock could not remember pinning Jim to the wall, but then, he could remember very little.   
  
Spock breathed out against Jim’s chest, against the teeth marks he had put there.   
  
“That was not how I had planned this evening to go.”   
  
Jim laughed and patted his head, angling him so that his ear rested on the bared skin over his heart.   
  
“No?”   
  
“No. I intended to ask you about Vulcan.” Jim waited patiently, and Spock felt amusement, both Jim’s and his own. “I find I cannot remember my questions.”   
  
Jim did something curious, then, and kissed the top of his head. Petted his hair—Spock felt surprise from him at the fact that it had gotten shaggy.   
  
“That’s okay. I’ll just give you the highlights, shall I?” Spock nodded and murmured his agreement, and he heard the soft rumble of Jim’s voice over the thick beat of his heart. “We’ve had two thousand and twenty four Vulcans willingly join our military over the past six months. Of all the slaves found and released, seventy nine percent of them were willing to stay in their relative positions with only a few changes, like pay and rights and the like. There’s been an endangered species act set up to protect some of the planet’s rarer species, and it seems to be going well.”   
  
Spock felt his lips twitch.   
  
“Fascinating.”   
  
Jim’s absent petting changed, smoothing over his shoulders as his voice trailed off into other subjects, subjects much closer to Spock’s heart.   
  
“Sybok misses you. He won’t say it, but he gets all weird whenever anybody tries to move the book that you left in his office. You knew you left it, right?”   
  
“Yes.” Spock forgot why, now—rebellion or reminder, it didn’t matter.   
  
Jim made a triumphant noise.   
  
“Thought so. He’s convinced you’ll come back for it. I think he just wants you to come back.” The petting continued in silence for a short while longer, and then Jim seemed to remember something else. “Your dad is alive—still on trial, but I don’t think anyone really wants to kill off all the elders and he’s not a bad guy—stern. And then there’s this woman who wants to see you.”   
  
Spock frowned.   
  
“Woman?”   
  
“Yes—she’s human. Older. I think her name is Amanda?”   
  
The name did not seem familiar, but Spock could think of only one person it could be. He hadn’t known that she still lived; he hadn’t thought she’d wish to see him.   
  
He didn’t know what he could say.   
  
“I see.”   
  
Jim paused, and then Spock felt apprehension from them both.   
  
“I want you to come with me, Spock. On my ship— _Enterprise._ ”   
  
Spock breathed out a sigh of relief. He had thought Jim was going to encourage distance again, encourage running and being apart; the reality, while not perfect, was much preferable.   
  
“That would not be out of the question,” Spock responded generously, allowing for the hope to bubble up inside him and inside Jim. Possibilities, not certainties—Spock had missed them.   
  
Jim tugged at his hair.   
  
“That’s not a ‘yes.’”   
  
“Correct.”   
  
They fell silent again, but it was not a sad silence—it was charged. Jim was aroused again, and Spock could feel it in his blood. This time, they would be slow. This time, they would linger. This time would be the most delicious of tortures.   
  
“I’m good at negotiating, you know—the best.”   
  
Spock smiled, and without warning, he rolled them both until Spock was on his back and Jim was resting between his legs.   
  
“I trust you are, Jim. I trust you are.”   
  
And although he did not say it, Spock knew Jim would convince him eventually.   
  
********   
  
End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Kirk is gifted to Spock for the Vulcan’s coming of age and becomes his bedslave. After some time, Spock would slowly realize that given Kirk’s intelligence, he could be so much more and puts him to better use. They fall in love.


End file.
